PO 

12. 
£5 


BARRETT  H.  CLARK 


THE 
CONTINENTAL    DRAMA   OF   TO-DAY 

Outlines  for  Its  Study     By  BARRETT  H.  CLARK 

Suggestions,  questions,  biographies,  and  bibliographies 
with  outlines,  of  half  a  dozen  pages  or  less  each,  of  the 
more  important  plays  of  Ibsen,  Bjb'rnsen,  Strindberg, 
Tolstoy,  Gorky,  Tchekoff,  Andreyeff,  Hauptmann,  Suder- 
mann,  Wedekind,  Schnitzler,  Von  Hoffmansthal,  Becque, 
Le  Maitre,  Lavedan,  Donnay,  Maeterlinck,  Rostand, 
••M-yieu,  Giacosa,  D'Annunzio,  Echegaray,  and 
Gald6s.  While  intended  to  be  used  in  connection  with  a 
reading  of  the  plays  themselves,  the  book  has  an  inde- 
pendent interest. 

12mo.     $1.50  net. 

(Published  by  HBNRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY,  New  York) 


FOUR  PLAYS 
By  CUREL,  JULLIEN,  PoRTo-RicHE,  and  ANCEY 

Authorized  Translation.    With  an  Introduction  by  BARRETT  H. 
CLARK,  and  Preface  by  EUGENE  BRIKCX  of  the  French  Academy. 

CONTENTS 

Preface Eugene  Brieux 

Antoine  and  the  Free  Theatre  .  .  .  Barrett  H.  Clark 
The  Fossils.  A  Play  in  4  Acts  .  .  .  Francois  de  Curel 
The  Serenade.  A  Bourgeois  Study  in  3  Acts  .  Jean  Jullien 
Francoise'  Luck.  A  Comedy  in  1  Act 

Georges  de  Porto-Riche 
The  Dupe.     A  Comedy  in  5  Acts     .     .     .  Georges  Ancey 

In  Stewart  and  Kidd's  Dramatic  Series.     Net  $1.50. 
(Published  by  STEWART  AND  KIDD,  Cincinnati,) 


THREE  MODERN  PLAYS 
FROM  THE  FRENCH 

THE  PRINCE  D'AUREC     By  HENRI  LAVEDAN 
THE  PARDON  By  JULES  LEMAITRE 

Both  translated  by  BARRETT  H.  CLARK 

AND 

THE  OTHER  DANGER      By  MAURICE  DONNAY 

Translated  by  CHARLOTTE  TENNEY  DAVID 

With  a  Preface  by  CLAYTON  HAMILTON 

Author  of  "Studies  in  Stagecraft,"  etc. 

and 
Articles  on  the  three  French  Authors  with  bibliographies  by 

BARRETT  H.  CLARK 

Author  of  "The  Continental  Drama  of  To-day,"  translator 
of  Hervieu's  "  The  Labyrinth,"  etc. 


NEW   YORK 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 
1914 


COPTBIGHT,  1914, 
BY 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 


PREFACE 

THE  label  "  Made  in  France  "  may  nearly  always  be 
accepted  as  a  guarantee  of  good  play-making;  for,  ever 
since  the  inception  of  the  modern  drama,  the  French  have 
been  the  masters  and  the  teachers  of  the  craft.  In  these 
opening  years  of  the  twentieth  century,  fewer  French  plays 
have  been  presented  in  the  theaters  of  America  and  Eng- 
land than  were  presented  in  the  closing  years  of  the  nine- 
teenth century;  but  this  fact,  instead  of  indicating  a  dete- 
rioration in  the  contemporary  product,  may  be  accepted, 
rather,  as  an  indication  that  the  French  drama  has  made  a 
definite  advance  along  a  certain  line. 

The  dominant  spirit  of  the  French  drama  in  the  last 
three  generations  has  been  realistic.  As  realism  advances, 
the  tendency  is  to  narrow  the  segment  of  life  that  is  sub- 
mitted to  observation  and  to  deepen  the  observation  of  the 
segment  that  has  been  selected  for  analysis.  As  realism 
has  progressed  in  France,  the  drama  has  become  more 
French — more  local  in  its  themes  and  in  its  characters — 
and  has  sacrificed  the  breadth  of  cosmopolitan  appeal  to 
gain  the  depth  of  national  importance. 

Three  or  four  generations  ago,  the  most  popular  drama- 
tist in  France  was  Eugene  Scribe;.  It  was  this  facile  and 
prolific  craftsman  who  gave  to  the  modern  theater  the 
formula  of  the  well-made  play  [la  piece  bien  faite],  a 
formula  that,  with  several  modifications  and  amplifications, 
has  subsisted  to  the  present  day.  Since  the  excellence  of 
Scribe  was  mainly  structural,  it  was  very  easy  to  trans- 
plant his  plays  from  one  country  to  another.  His  dialogue 
was  devoid  of  literary  merit,  and  was  therefore  just  as  per- 

iii 


iv  PREFACE 

tinent  in  a  translation  as  in  the  original.  His  characters 
were  merely  puppets,  and  were  therefore  just  as  inter- 
esting to  foreigners  as  they  could  ever  be  to  Frenchmen. 
And,  since  there  was  no  note  of  nationality  in  his  dexterous 
and  clever  plots,  these  plots  could  easily  be  adapted  to  serve 
as  the  theatric  fare  of  a  public  overseas.  A  simple  play  of 
plot  is  much  more  cosmopolitan  in  its  appeal  than  a  study 
of  national  characters  or  local  situations. 

The  broad  and  cosmopolitan  appeal  of  Scribe  was  con- 
tinued by  his  immediate  disciple  and  successor,  Victorien 
Sardou.  A  typical  Sardou  melodrama,  like  Fedora  or  La 
Tosca,  was  fully  as  enjoyable  to  foreign  audiences  as  to 
the  public  of  Paris.  The  logical  successor  of  Sardou  in 
the  contemporary  French  theater  is  M.  Henry  Bernstein; 
and  it  is  not  surprising  that  his  plays  have  been  more 
successful  in  America  than  those  of  any  other  French  play- 
wright of  the  present  time.  No  less  than  five  of  his  works — 
The  Whirlwind,  The  Thief,  Samson,  Israel,  and  The  Secret 
— have  been  profitably  acted  in  this  country.  M.  Bernstein 
is  a  more  important  dramatist  than  Sardou  or  Scribe,  for  he 
has  forced  the  formula  of  the  well-made  play  to  sustain 
an  analysis  of  character  that  is  unusually  searching;  but 
his  merit  is,  in  the  main,  a  matter  of  mechanics,  and  his 
emphasis  on  mechanism  may  be  accepted  as  accounting 
for  the  comparative  ease  with  which  his  plays  may  be  trans- 
ported from  one  country  to  another. 

In  France  itself,  while  Scribe  was  still  alive,  his  reputa- 
tion was  overridden  by  two  dramatists  of  more  profound 
intention, — Emile  Augier  and  Alexandra  Dumas,  fils;  but 
neither  of  these  writers  attained  the  cosmopolitan  currency 
of  their  more  mechamical  and  artificial  rival.  Augier — the 
greatest  French  dramatist  of  the  nineteenth  century — de- 
voted himself  to  the  study  of  social  conditions  which  were 
peculiarly  French;  and  it  was  impossible  to  make  his  plays 


PREFACE  v 

seem  applicable  to  the  social  conditions  of  any  other  coun- 
try. Just  as  M.  Bernstein  has  been  singled  out  as  the 
logical  successor  of  Sardou  and  Scribe,  M.  Eugene  Brieux 
may  be  selected  as  the  logical  successor  of  Augier  in  the 
contemporary  theater.  The  life-purpose  of  M.  Brieux  is 
to  point  out  what  is  wrong  in  the  social  system  of  his  own 
country  in  his  own  time;  and  many  of  his  criticisms  lose 
their  pertinence  whenever  an  attempt  is  made  to  apply  them 
to  the  social  system  of  any  other  country.  Three  of  his 
plays  have  been  acted  in  English  in  New  York.  Of  these 
three,  both  The  Incubus  [Les  Hannetons]  and  The  Three 
Daughters  of  M.  Dupont  have  failed,  because  they  were 
directed  against  social  conditions  which  have  no  counter- 
part in  America;  and  only  Damaged  Goods  [Les  Avaries] 
has  succeeded,  because  (despite  the  fact  that  it  is  inferior 
to  either  of  the  others  as  a  technical  accomplishment)  it 
deals  with  a  problem  that  is  of  equal  moment  to  every 
nation  in  the  modern  world. 

Since  Alexandre  Dumas,  fits,  was  more  interested  in  the 
analysis  of  individual  characters  than  of  social  problems, 
his  work,  while  less  profound  than  that  of  Emile  Augier, 
was  more  susceptible  of  transportation;  but  it  is  interest- 
ing to  record  that  his  best  play,  Le  Demi-Monde,  because 
it  is  particularly  French,  has  never  attained  the  currency 
in  other  countries  that  was  easily  acquired  by  that  com- 
paratively immature  and  sentimental  product,  La  Dame  aux 
Cornelias,  which  is  still  acted  in  America  under  the  title 
of  Camille.  The  logical  successor  of  the  younger  Dumas 
as  an  analyst  of  individual  character  is  M.  Paul  Hervieu. 
Four  of  his  plays — The  Labyrinth,  The  Awakening,  Know 
Thyself,  and  The  Passing  of  the  Torch — have  been  acted 
in  America;  but  none  of  them  has  been  successful  in  the 
theater,  because  they  deal  with  subtleties  of  psychology 
which  are  locally  and  characteristically  French. 


vi  PREFACE 

We  are  thus  confronted  with  the  paradox  that,  as  the 
French  drama  has  become  more  profoundly  meritorious 
from  the  point  of  view  of  realism,  it  has  become  less  suc- 
ceptible  of  transportation  to  the  stage  of  other  countries 
like  America.  It  was  easy  to  adapt  the  plays  of  Scribe  to 
the  uses  of  the  American  theater;  but  it  would  be  very 
difficult  to  adapt  the  plays  of  M.  Fra^ois  de  Curel  or  M. 
Alfred  Capus,  because  these  writers  are  more  deeply  and 
typically  French.  In  recent  years  two  plays  by  M.  Henry 
Bataille  have  been  presented  in  America — The  Foolish 
Virgin  and  The  Scandal — but  both  of  these  have  failed, 
because  the  intensification  of  their  realism  carried  with  it 
a  necessary  localization  in  the  author's  attitude  toward  char- 
acter. In  proportion  as  realism  approaches  its  ideal  of 
reality,  it  becomes  incomprehensible  to  a  public  that  is  not 
native  and  indued  unto  the  element  in  which  the  realist 
is  working. 

It  becomes  evident,  therefore,  that  if  the  plays  of  the 
finest  French  writers  of  the  present  day  are  to  be  made 
familiar  to  the  theater-going  public  of  America,  they  must 
be  presented  through  the  medium  of  publication,  instead 
of  through  the  medium  of  theatrical  production.  It  may 
honestly  be  doubted  whether  a  popular  success  would  be 
attained  if  any  of  the  Three  Modern  Plays  from  the  French 
which  are  offered  in  the  present  volume  were  presented  in 
the  American  theater;  because  all  three  of  these  plays  are 
perhaps  too  local  in  their  implications  to  make  an  imme- 
diate appeal  to  the  casual  and  careless  public  of  this  coun- 
try. It  has  therefore  been  deemed  advisable  to  publish 
them,  in  order  to  place  them  in  the  hands  of  that  cultured 
minority  that  is  sufficiently  equipped  to  appreciate  and 
value  an  extraordinary  technical  accomplishment. 

The  three  playwrights  whose  work  is  represented  in  the 
present  volume  have  been  chosen  with  a  purpose  to  broaden 


PREFACE  vii 

the  acquaintance  of  the  public  of  this  country  with  the  con- 
temporary French  drama.  Three  plays  by  M.  Brieux 
[The  Three  Daughters  of  M.  Dupont,  Maternity,  and 
Damaged  Goods]  have  already  been  published  in  America, 
with  a  preface  by  Mr.  Bernard  Shaw.  A  representative 
play  by  M.  Hervieu  [The  Labyrinth]  has  been  published 
in  this  country,  with  a  preface  by  Mr.  Barrett  H.  Clark, 
the  editor  of  the  present  volume,  and  translator  of  two  of 
the  plays  included  in  it.  The  work  of  M.  Bernstein  has 
already  been  adequately  made  familiar  in  America,  through 
the  medium  of  popular  theatrical  production.  But  the 
present  volume  offers  to  our  reading  public  the  very  first 
opportunity  to  study  the  no  less  representative  work  of  MM. 
Henri  Lavedan,  Jules  Lemaitre,  and  Maurice  Donnay. 

Three  plays  by  M.  Lavedan  have  already  been  acted  in 
America,  with  varying  degrees  of  success,  and  one  play 
by  M.  Donnay  has  been  presented  for  a  few  weeks  in  New 
York;  but  the  work  of  the  three  playwrights  represented  in 
the  present  volume  is  less  familiar  to  the  American  public 
than  that  of  MM.  Brieux,  Hervieu,  and  Bernstein.  It  is 
hoped,  therefore,  that  this  little  book  may  serve  to  extend 
the  appreciation  in  this  country  of  what  is  being  accom- 
plished by  the  leading  French  playwrights  of  the  present 
day. 

In  The  Prince  d'Aurec,  the  main  point  to  be  noted  is  the 
skill  with  which  M.  Lavedan  has  created  the  character  of 
a  traditional  aristocrat  of  a  type  for  which  there  is  no 
counterpart  in  American  society.  We  may  reasonably  argue 
that  the  Prince  falls  short  of  that  utilitarian  ideal  by  which 
we  are  accustomed,  in  our  own  democracy,  to  measure  the 
worth  of  a  man;  but  we  must  admit  that  there  is  a  certain 
innate  fineness  in  his  character  that  has  been  inherited 
from  centuries  of  aristocracy.  In  Tine  Pardon,  by  M.  Jules 
Lemaitre,  we  are  called  upon  to  admire  the  astounding 


viii  PREFACE 

technical  efficiency  with  which  the  author  has  managed  to 
devise  a  full-length  play  by  the  manipulation  of  only  three 
characters.  The  pattern  of  this  piece  illustrates  both  the 
beauty  of  essential  symmetry  and  that  subtler  beauty  that 
is  derived  by  unexpected  variations  from  a  symmetrical 
scheme  that  seems  to  have  been  anticipated  in  all  details. 
The  Other  Danger,  by  M.  Donnay,  reminds  us,  in  its 
craftsmanship,  of  the  artistry  of  Sir  Arthur  Pinero.  It  is 
apparent  that  Pinero  would  have  suppressed  the  initial 
and  preparatory  act,  and  would  have  begun  the  play  at 
the  moment  which  M.  Donnay  has  selected  for  the  out- 
set of  his  second  act ;  but  it  may  be  questioned  whether  the 
customary  concentration  of  the  British  dramatist  is  prefer- 
able to  the  deliberate  and  gradual  preparation  of  this 
French  writer  for  a  distressing  and  abhorrent  climax. 

A  word  must  be  appended  in  explanation  of  the  moral 
attitude  of  these  French  writers  toward  those  incidents 
of  life  which  they  have  chosen  to  depict.  In  all  three  of 
these  plays  (and  indeed  in  nearly  all  of  the  contemporary 
dramas  that  are  "  made  in  France  ")  the  problem  of  illicit 
love  is  brought  up  for  analysis.  Though  our  minds  may 
be  made  up  that  illicit  love  is,  in  every  imaginable  circum- 
stance, immoral,  it  does  not  logically  follow  that  plays 
which  present  a  sincere  analysis  of  such  a  circumstance  must 
therefore  be  considered  as  immoral.  The  morality,  or  the 
immorality,  of  any  play  is  determined  not  by  its  subject- 
matter,  but  by  the  sanity,  or  insanity,  of  the  author's  atti- 
tude of  mind  toward  the  subject-matter  which  he  has 
selected  for  analysis.  No  play  can  be  immoral  unless 
it  is  untrue.  In  The  Pardon,  M.  Lemaitre  has  shown  no 
tendency  to  minimize  the  mutual  responsibility  that  results 
from  the  dual  infidelity  of  the  husband  and  the  wife ;  and,  in 
The  Other  Danger,  M.  Donnay  has  not  endeavored  to 
diminish  in  any  way  the  tragic  pathos  of  the  situation  in 


PREFACE  ix 

which  his  erstwhile  illicit  lovers  find  themselves  finally  in- 
volved. Such  plays  as  these  are  not  immoral,  though  they 
exhibit  immoral  situations  and  analyze  immoral  people; 
for  a  sane  and  proper  outlook  upon  life  at  large  is  con- 
sistently maintained  by  the  aloof  and  dissociated  reason  of 
the  authors. 

CLAYTON  HAMILTON 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

PREFACE iii 

HENBI   LAVEDAN 3 

JULES  LEMAITBE 19 

MAUBICE  DONNAY 35 

GENERAL  BIBLIOGBAPHY 49 

THE  PBINCE  D'AUBEC 51 

A  Comedy  in  Three  Acts  by  Henri  Lavedan.     Trans- 
lated by  Barrett  H.  Clark. 

THE  PABDON 131 

A  Comedy  in  Three  Acts  by  Jules  Lemaitre.     Trans- 
lated by  Barrett  H.  Clark. 

THE  OTHER  DANGER 171 

A  Comedy  in  Four  Acts  by  Maurice  Donnay.     Trans- 
lated by  Charlotte  Tenney  David. 


THREE  MODERN  PLAYS  FROM 
THE  FRENCH 


HENRI   LAVEDAN 

Henri  Lavedan  is  a  painter  of  contemporary  manners 
with  an  extraordinary  endowment  of  that  quality,  very 
difficult  to  define,  which  the  French  call  esprit.  He  is  also 
something  of  a  moralist. 

Alfred  Capus  is  a  painter  of  manners,  but  he  rarely 
digs  beneath  the  surface  of  things.  Half  a  dozen  French 
dramatists  of  the  day  possess  keen  senses  of  humor  at  least 
the  equal  of  that  of  Lavedan.  Brieux  is  certainly  a  moral- 
ist. Yet  Lavedan  resembles  none  of  his  contemporaries. 
Perhaps  this  isolation  is  partly  the  result  of  his  birth  and 
early  education.  A  born  bourgeois  as  to  class,  he  lived  in 
a  family  where  "  the  highest  ideals  and  the  strictest  sense 
of  what  was  fitting  were  of  long  and  traditional  standing." 
Add  to  this,  a  good  education,  with  few  obstacles  to  be 
overcome,  and  we  find  the  youthful  Lavedan  in  a  position 
to  see  the  life  of  his  time  in  a  clear  and  steady  light. 
Capus,  by  reason  of  his  comparatively  narrow  education, 
Brieux,  because  of  his  preoccupation  with  social  questions, 
and  also  of  his  birth  and  breeding,  Donnay,  warped  a  little 
by  too  close  application  to  the  erotic — all  lack  the  transcen- 
dental outlook  of  their  more  fortunate  confrere.  With 
equal  sureness  of  touch  and  sympathy  he  can  show  us  the 
intimate  life  of  the  full-blooded  aristocrat  (The  Prince 
d'Aurec],  and  the  unfortunate  little  bourgeoise  music- 
teacher  (Catherine^  ;  he  can  enter  into  the  sentiments  of 
the  "  viveur,"  and  then  turn  round  and  condemn  him  with 
all  the  imprecations  of  an  enraged  Brieux  (The  Marquis 
de  Priola).  Where  Hervieu  sketches  a  shadow,  a  lay- 
figure,  Lavedan  paints  a  portrait;  where  Brieux  criticizes 

3 


4  HENRI LAVEDAN 

a  condition  of  affairs,  Lavedan  makes  a  living  story  of  it. 
But  Lavedan  has  distinct  limitations;  for  if  little  Catherine 
is  well-drawn  and  sympathetic,  she  is  a  trifle  too  good  to 
be  true.  If  The  Duel  be  a  supremely  skilful  piece  of 
technic  and  an  interesting  psychological  study,  its  end  is 
weak  and  unconvincing. 

Lavedan  is  an  unequal  writer;  his  occasional  shortcom- 
ings are  probably  more  noticeable  than  those  of  most  of 
his  fellow-writers.  It  seems  that  he  has  never  been  quite 
sure  as  to  what  style  of  work  he  was  best  fitted  for.  About 
twenty  years  after  the  production  of  his  first  play,  he  was 
still  searching  for  new  ways  of  presenting  his  material. 
Character-drawing  is  his  supreme  gift.  When  we  think 
of  the  bulk  of  his  work,  we  forget  the  weak  plots  of  some 
of  the  plays,  the  faulty  technic  of  many  of  them,  and  think 
only  of  the  three  or  four  commanding  figures  for  which 
he  will  long  be  remembered :  The  Prince  d'Aurec,  the  Mar- 
quis de  Priola,  and  Paul  Costard. 

A  few  lines  will  suffice  to  render  a  brief  account  of  the 
life  of  Lavedan.  Born  at  Orleans  in  the  year  1859,  he 
was  sent  to  a  small  seminary  not  far  from  his  native 
town,  then  to  the  Lycee  Louis-le-Grand  and  the  Institution 
Bossuet  at  Paris,  and  later  to  Jesuit  schools  at  Nantes  and 
Poitiers.  He  returned  to  Paris  from  the  provinces  to  finish 
his  studies,  when  the  War  of  1870  broke  out.  Henri's 
father  placed  the  youth  in  the  hands  of  the  priests,  with 
whom  Henri  remained  during  the  terrible  siege  and  the 
Commune.  At  the  end  of  those  troublous  times,  he  was 
graduated,  and  immediately  agreed  to  the  wishes  of  his 
parents,  who  had  determined  to  make  a  lawyer  of  him;  but 
one  year  of  law  was  so  disagreeable,  that  upon  passing 
his  examinations,  he  refused  to  continue  to  work  toward 
a  profession  which  was  obviously  so  little  in  accordance 
with  his  inclination  and  ability. 


HENRI  LAVEDAN  5 

At  this  period,  for  the  first  time,  Lavedan  began  to  ex- 
perience some  of  the  hardships  of  life  in  Paris  which  are 
usually  the  lot  of  young  men  without  a  profession.  He  was 
not  long,  however,  in  making  a  way  for  himself  in  the  field 
in  which  he  was  sure  to  succeed. 

Among  his  first  literary  efforts  were  numerous  little 
dialogues — of  a  type  which  he  has  continued  to  write  to 
this  day — :  diminutive  quarts  d'heure,  which  made  their 
appearance  from  time  to  time  in  newspapers  and  maga- 
zines. But  printed  dialogues  hardly  make  a  dramatist. 
One  day  he  showed  some  of  these  trifles  to  the  ever-ready 
and  enterprising  Antoine,  who  produced  some  of  them  at 
his  Theatre  Libre,  to  the  horror  of  many  members  of  the 
critical  world,  who  considered  the  little  "  scenes  "  as  deca- 
dent tag-ends  of  plays.  Lavedan  himself  realized  that 
these  were  not  very  ambitious  efforts,  and  set  to  work  on 
a  serious  long  play,  Une  Famille,  which  had  the  good  luck 
to  be  accepted  by  the  Comedie  Fran£aise  and  played,  in 
1891.  The  play  is  not  a  significant  one,  except  that  it 
proved  that  Lavedan  was  able  to  construct  a  full-length 
play  and  hold  the  interest  of  the  audience.  Still,  the  "  dia- 
logues "  style  was  still  to  be  observed  in  this  larger  fabric ; 
Une  Famille  was  in  reality  a  cleverly  strung  series  of  con- 
versations. It  may  be  well  to  look  into  one  or  two  of  these 
trifles,  for  they  give  evidence  of  some  of  the  chief  quali- 
ties of  the  writer:  observation  of  details,  and  skill  in 
dialogue. 

Paul  and  his  sister  Fran9oise  meet  early  one  morning: 
she  is  coming  home  from  the  ball,  he  from  the  club.  Paul 
has  lost  a  good  deal  of  money,  while  she  has  been  "  fear- 
fully bored."  He  tells  his  sister  that  if  she  fails  to  appre- 
ciate the  men  she  meets  at  dances  she  may  lose  her  chance 
of  marrying. 


6  HENRI  LAVE DAN 

FRANCOISE.     I  tell  you,  I  despise  the  whole  lot! 

PAUL.  Of  course,  but  that  is  no  reason  for  not  marry- 
ing one  of  them. 

FRANCOISE.     Think  so? 

PAUL.  Lord! — Of  course!  Take  the  least  impossible 
one.  He'll  improve  with  age,  settle  down,  and  in  a  year 
or  a  year  and  a  half,  when  he'll  be  merely  a  father  to  you, 
well,  you'll  have  a  very  nice,  respectable,  little  husband. 

FRANCOISE.  I  tell  you,  I  have  other  ideas  on  the  ques- 
tion of  marriage.  Mine  will  be  a  marriage  of  inclination — 
pleasure. 

PAUL.  Impossible !  I've  given  the  matter  more  thought 
than  you  may  perhaps  imagine,  and  I  have  come  to  this 
profound  conclusion,  little  girl:  that  all  necessary  things — 
like  getting  born,  and  eating,  and  loving — it's  all  a  pose, 
a  nasty  pose.  People  try  to  make  it  attractive,  put  sea- 
soning into  it — but — !  It's  dressed  up  and  set  to  music, 
but  the  sauces  don't  last  forever:  you've  got  to  swallow  the 
terrible  fish.  Marriage  is  one  of  the  fish,  just  like  birth 
and  death —  ...  A  gay  life  we  lead,  we  must  admit !  And 
we  look  the  part!  You're  green,  little  sister! 

FRANCOISE.     And  you  violet! 

PAUL.     It's  the  dawn  that  makes  us  look  like  that. 

FRANCOISE.  The  dawn  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  Our  faces 
only  reflect  our  souls — that's  the  truth  of  the  matter. 

PAUL.     Our  souls?    Our  souls? 

FRANCOISE.     Don't  you  believe  in  the  soul? 

PAUL.     Yes,  little  sister,  when  I'm  sick,  otherwise 

FRANCOISE.     What? 

PAUL.  Nothing.  I  believe  that  we  are  put  into  the 
world  to  go  through  a  number  of  gestures,  which  are  al- 
ways the  same ;  which  must  be  gone  through  at  the  same 
time — and  then  we  all  fade  away 

In  Every  Evening  (Scene  de  tons  les  soirs)  three  club- 
men are  gathered  together  at  two  in  the  morning,  and  in- 
quire what  they  can  do  to  kill  time. 

VOUVANS.     Well,  what  are  we  doing  now? 
D'ARGENTAY.     Yes,  what?  .  .  . 


HENRI  LAVEDAN  7 

COUTRAS.     We're  living:  this  is  life. 

VOUVANS.  We've  been  doing  the  same  thing  together 
for  the  past  twelve  years. 

D'ARGENTAY.     And  we're  not  tired  of  it.     Curious ! 

VOUVANS.  But  most  curious  of  all,  is  to  think  that  in 
twenty  years'  time  we  shall  be  just  as  amused  by  this  as 
we  are  now — perhaps  more. 

D'ARGENTAY.  Very  possibly.  I  remember,  I  once  met 
a  poor  girl  in  the  street,  pale,  sickly-looking.  I  said  to 
her,  "  You  must  be  tired  of  it  all,  aren't  you?  "  She  said 
with  a  smile,  "  No,  I  rather  like  it:  I  get  used  to  it  from 
day  to  day." 

VOUVANS.     Well — what  are  we  doing? 

D'ARGENTAY.  Something  very  Parisian:  we're  smoking. 
Voila ! 


Here  is  Lavedan  the  moralist.  Where  Capus  observes 
life  and  passes  by  without  comment,  Lavedan  points  a 
lesson;  Capus  laughs  with  or  at  his  "flaneurs," — literally, 
"  wasters  " — Lavedan  allows  them  to  drop  remarks  reveal- 
ing tragic  depths.  The  little  conversation  between  Paul 
and  Frangoise  is  a  case  in  question.  Lavedan  delights  in 
showing  us  the  boulevardier,  the  clubman,  the  Don  Juan, 
the  fop;  but  he  rarely  fails  to  show  both  sides  of  his  char- 
acter. In  the  plays  these  sketches  become  expanded,  the 
portraits  are  more  detailed.  The  plot,  in  nearly  every 
case,  serves  largely  as  framework:  the  character  is  of  su- 
preme importance. 

Le  Nouveau  Jeu  (1898)  is  probably  the  most  amusing 
play  Lavedan  ever  wrote.  In  it,  that  type  of  boulevardier 
who  tries  at  all  costs  to  appear  original  is  crystallized;  his 
argot,  his  antics,  his  good  and  bad  qualities  are  set  before 
us  with  a  verisimilitude  which  this  dramatist  never  sur- 
passed. Paul  Costard,  the  principal  character  of  the 
piece,  is  at  the  theater  one  evening  in  company  with  his 
mistress,  and  declares  that  unless  she  behaves  herself  and 


8  HENRI LAVEDAN 

allows  him  to  direct  his  opera-glasses  in  whatever  part  of 
the  house  he  pleases,  he  will  obtain  an  introduction  to  the 
young  girl  whom  he  has  been  observing  in  a  nearby  box, 
and  marry  her.  Bobette  dares  him;  he  takes  the  dare, 
leaves  her  abruptly,  gets  the  introduction  to  the  young  lady, 
and  before  long  is  allowed  by  her  parents  to  become  an 
"  accepted  "  suitor.  It  so  happens  that  Alice  Labosse  her- 
self is  something  of  an  "  original."  When  her  mother  tells 
her  that  Costard  wishes  to  marry  her,  she  replies  that  the 
whole  matter  leaves  her  indifferent. 

MME.  LABOSSE.  You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  that  it 
makes  no  difference  to  you  whether  you  marry  the  first- 
comer  or  not? 

ALICE.     Absolutely  none! 

MME.  LABOSSE.  Old  or  young,  hideous  or  handsome,  rich 
or  poor — it's  all  the  same  to  you? 

ALICE.  The  same?  No.  But  I  have  no  desire  for  one 
any  more  than  for  the  other.  I  tell  you,  Mamma,  it's  of 
no  importance.  I  accept  everything  that  each  day  brings 
me:  good  and  bad  together.  Don't  worry  me  now;  be  nice. 

MME.  LABOSSE.  It's  perfectly  monstrous !  Think  of 
having  a  disposition  like  yours,  my  child!  Only  eighteen 
years  old,  too.  You  are  laying  up  trouble  for  yourself 

ALICE.     Perhaps. 

MME.  LABOSSE.     And  you  don't  care  at  all? 

ALICE.     No,  it  makes  no  difference  to  me. 

Costard  marries  her — and  a  week  later  returns  to 
Bobette.  Then  begins  the  intrigue.  It  is  not  very  new, 
and  not  at  all  respectable.  Alice  loses  no  time  in  finding 
a  lover;  Costard  is  discovered  under  embarrassing  circum- 
stances, but  before  long  Alice  takes  revenge,  and  is  found 
in  a  no  less  embarrassing  situation.  The  play  must  be 
taken  in  that  spirit  of  aloof  unreality  which  Lamb  urged 
we  should  have  to  assume  when  seeing  the  artificial  come- 
dies of  the  English  Restoration;  in  that  sense,  Le  Nouveau 


HENRI  LAVEDAN  9 

Jeu  is  the  best  of  comedy,  but  if  we  take  facts  for  facts, 
it  is  dismal  tragedy.  At  the  last,  Costard  and  Alice,  equally 
guilty,  are  called  before  the  tribunal  and  severely  censured 
by  the  judge.  After  the  moral  and  sententious  "  lecture," 
Costard  replies: 

I  freely  admit  everything,  Monsieur.  It  is  life,  simple 
every-day  life.  It  is  life  to  get  married  and  regret  it;  to 
endeavor  to  escape  from  the  bonds  of  holy  matrimony,  to 
be  caught,  to  desert  house  and  family,  and  then  go  the 
limit.  .  .  . 

JUDGE.  Do  you  not  regret  having  destroyed  the  happi- 
ness of  your  wife? 

COSTARD.  Not  in  the  least.  She  could  never  have  been 
happy  with  me.  I'm  good  for  everything  in  the  world  ex- 
cept marriage. 

JUDGE.     Then  you  had  no  business  marrying. 

COSTARD.  How  was  I  to  know?  It's  just  like  spinach: 
in  order  to  dislike  it,  you  must  first  taste  it 

Le  Nouveau  Jeu  is  hardly  more  than  a  series  of  episodes, 
but  with  what  unerring  skill  are  they  contrived !  They  are 
more  than  comments  on  certain  sections  of  life;  they  are 
definite  and  truthful  pictures,  full  of  verve,  throbbing  with 
vitality.  Their  morality  cannot  well  be  called  into  ques- 
tion: Lavedan  paints  what  he  sees.  He  is  a  remarkably 
clever  bystander. 

Since  the  fall  of  the  last  Monarchy  in  France  in  1871, 
and  indeed  ever  since  the  Revolution,  the  aristocracy  has 
never  quite  found  its  proper  position  in  the  state.  It  was 
forced  either  to  participate  in  the  government  and  thereby 
relinquish  much  of  its  former  prestige,  or  remain  apart 
and  preserve  the  tradition  of  culture  and  gentility  which 
had  for  so  many  centuries  been  in  its  sole  keeping.  The 
indomitable  pride,  the  arrogant  superiority,  the  conscious- 
ness of  the  divine  right  of  nobility,  the  pathos  of  the  dying 


10  HENRI  LAVEDAN 

out  of  the  Ancien  Regime,  Lavedan  centered  in  his  finest 
character  creation:  The  Prince  d'Aurec.  The  entire  play 
(1892)  is  concerned  with  this  suave  aristocrat;  the  plot 
— such  as  it  is — and  the  minor  personages,  serve  but  to 
throw  into  relief  this  insufferable  but  somehow  sympa- 
thetic snob.  By  reason  of  his  birth,  the  Prince  believes 
that  he  has  but  to  "  invent  a  clever  saying — a  perfume, 
a  shade — set  it  in  circulation;  a  new  cravat,  a  distinctive 
hat,  discover  a  new  method  of  riding,  render  a  vice  as 
attractive  as  the  ridicule  of  virtue ;  revolt  against  the  vulgar 
diamond  of  the  Jew,  the  bronze  objets  d'art  of  the  bour- 
geois, the  hardware  of  the  Peruvian !  That  is  the  only 
occupation  worthy  a  gentleman  nowadays !  "  If  he  bor- 
rows money  from  De  Horn,  he  is  under  no  obligation,  he 
believes,  to  pay  it  back:  Noblesse  oblige!  Has  he  not 
allowed  De  Horn  to  sit  at  his  table,  De  Horn,  a  Jew  and 
a  bourgeois !  Has  he  not  condescended  to  be  seen  in  public 
with  him,  even  driven  his  carriages?  And  does  the  Jew 
then  ask  for  his  cursed  money?  This  attitude  is  a  little 
difficult  to  understand;  but  it  must  be  remembered  that 
the  Prince  had  been  educated  with  the  idea  that  his  family 
had  from  the  days  of  the  Crusades  been  one  of  the  most 
important  and  influential  in  France,  that  because  of  its 
accomplishments  to  it  was  ever  due  the  respect  of  every 
succeeding  generation  of  Frenchmen,  be  they  Royalists  or 
Republicans.  Yet  the  Prince  plays  a  losing  game:  he  lives 
in  a  Republic,  where  justice  is  done.  De  Horn  will  have 
his  money.  The  Duchess  pays  the  Jew,  who  disappears; 
the  Prince  bows  down  momentarily  to  his  fate,  but  his 
last  words  redeem  him;  right  or  wrong,  he  is  a  noble  to 
the  end.  "  To-day  I  can  swear  to  do  only  one  thing:  live 
like  an  honest  man,  and  when  the  time  comes,  die  like  a 
prince."  We  may  doubt  whether  he  will  live  as  he  says, 
but  we  are  positive  that  he  means  to  die  like  a  prince.  "  In 


HENRI  LAVEDAN  11 

war  ? "  asks  his  mother.  "  Will  you  die  in  battle  ? " 
Montade  the  novelist  answers  that  that  is  no  more  than 
any  of  us  would  do,  and  the  Prince  replies  with  incom- 
parable hauteur — like  one  of  his  Crusader  forefathers — 
"  II  y  a  la  maniere !  "  All  of  France  might  die  for  her 
on  the  field  of  battle,  but  he  will  die  in  his  own  particular 
"  manner !  "  The  line  is  worthy  Cyrano's  "  Ma  panache !  " 

Viveurs!  (1895)  is  a  series  of  interesting  genre  scenes; 
it  contains  little  that  cannot  be  found  later,  and  better 
developed,  in  three  or  four  of  the  more  important  plays. 
Catherine  (1898)  is  one  of  those  rare  comedies  in  contem- 
porary French  drama  which  can  with  impunity  be  pre- 
sented by  ladies'  boarding  schools.  Although  it  could 
scarcely  be  termed  insipid,  the  studied  avoidance  of  any- 
thing unpleasant  in  subject-matter  or  treatment,  the  in- 
herent goodness  of  the  heroine,  leave  us  with  the  impres- 
sion that  the  author  was  either  uninspired  or  else  that  he 
wished  to  write  a  play  which  could  not  possibly  give 
offense. 

Le  Marquis  de  Priola  (1902)  presents  a  striking  con- 
trast. That  play,  together  with  Le  Duel  (1905),  are, 
among  Lavedan's  later  plays,  the  most  significant.  Add 
to  these  Le  Prince  d'Aurec  and  Le  Nouveau  Jeu,  and  we 
have  the  best  and  most  representative  plays  of  the  author. 

Le  Marquis  de  Priola  is  the  most  pointedly  moral  of  any 
of  the  plays.  Don  Juan  has  always  been  an  attractive  fig- 
ure; but  among  his  many  interpreters  he  has  found  none 
who  drew  so  poignant  a  lesson  from  his  famous  escapades. 
The  sinister  Marquis  (played  by  the  incomparable  Le 
Bargy  at  the  Comedie  Francaise)  is  the  irresistible  seducer, 
the  arch-demon  whose  fierce  onslaughts  have  as  yet  never 
failed  to  attain  their  desired  end.  "  I  am  a  dilettante,"  he 
says,  "  a  collector  who  avidly  looks  on  at  the  spectacle  of 
the  hesitations,  troubles,  fevers  and  agonies  of  the  ferni- 


12  HENRI  LAVEDAN 

nine  heart.  It  is  a  divine  comedy:  I  see  women  laugh, 
cry,  suffer,  lie.  .  .  .  This  is  an  exquisite  joy  to  me — 
always  provided  that  those  smiles,  kisses,  tears,  are  bril- 
liantly executed:  they  must  be  things  of  beauty."  To  his 
protege  Pierre  Morain,  a  young  man  whom  he  has  had  the 
apparent  decency  to  adopt,  he  says :  "  Don't  believe  in 
women,  they  will  believe  in  you.  Domineer  over  them. 
Never  fall  in  love:  you  will  burn  your  fingers  if  you  do. 
Never  for  a  second  admit  to  yourself  that  they  are  of  the 
slightest  importance,  that  they  can  influence  your  destiny 
by  the  weight  of  a  single  hair.  Fear  no  woman,  believe 
no  woman,  above  all  those  who  say  they  are  honest;  they 
are  the  worst  of  all."  At  an  embassy  ball  in  Paris  the 
Marquis'  divorced  wife,  since  remarried,  catches  sight  of 
her  former  husband,  and  immediately  realizes  that  his  hold 
on  her  is  as  strong  as  ever.  Afraid  of  herself,  she  con- 
fides in  her  puritanical  friend,  Mme.  de  Savieres,  who 
consents  to  remonstrate  with  the  Marquis.  But  with  con- 
summate skill  the  Marquis,  who  knows  how  to  deal  with 
puritans,  nearly  achieves  the  conquest  of  the  envoy;  in- 
deed, Mme.  de  Chesne,  Priola's  former  wife,  intervenes 
just  in  time  to  save  her  friend.  The  idea  of  making  violent 
love  to  Mme.  de  Chesne  has  taken  hold  of  the  Marquis. 
But  Therese  de  Valleroy  has  meantime  promised  to  come 
to  the  Marquis'  home  to  see  "  the  famous  collection  of  alma- 
nacs." But  Priola's  preoccupation  with  Mme.  de  Chesne 
leads  him  to  insult  Therese  and  cruelly  wound  her  pride. 
He  plays  with  her  a  few  minutes,  and  then  sends  her 
home,  saying  to  her  as  she  leaves:  "  Let  us  be  more  than 
lovers:  let  us  be  friends!"  Now  there  is  one  obstacle 
to  the  reconquering  of  Mme.  de  Chesne:  Pierre  Morain. 
The  young  man,  revolted  at  the  cruelty  of  his  "  guardian," 
begs  him  not  to  persecute  the  poor  woman.  The  conflict 
gives  rise  to  a  superb  scene,  which  results  in  Pierre's  decla- 


HENRI  LAVEDAN  13 

ration  that  he  will  live  no  longer  with  his  guardian.  Mme. 
de  Chesne,  receiving  an  old  letter  calculated  to  arouse  in 
her  the  sensations  and  memories  of  her  first  love  for  the 
Marquis,  is  ready  to  give  in  to  him,  but  her  virtuous  friend 
Mme.  de  Savieres  suggests  that  she  test  the  fidelity  of  the 
lover.  If,  as  he  says,  he  is  really  in  love  with  his  former 
wife,  he  will  not  make  love  to  her,  Mme.  de  Savieres.  But 
again  the  puritanical  woman  comes  near  to  succumbing 
to  the  diabolic  wooing  of  Don  Juan.  Pierre,  who  has  been 
clearing  out  the  Marquis'  desk  and  rearranging  old  letters 
and  papers,  comes  across  a  photograph  of  his  mother:  the 
truth  then  flashes  across  him — the  dishonor  of  his  father's 
"  accidental  "  death — and  he  decides  on  revenge.  The  next 
day  he  confronts  his  guardian  with  the  photograph.  "  I 
ought  to  kill  you,  but  it  is  not  worth  my  while  to  do  it: 
your  death  is  not  far  off.  I  shall  let  you  go."  "  What 
do  you  mean  ?  "  asks  the  Marquis. — "  That  the  life  you 
have  been  leading  is  beginning  to  tell  on  you;  you  haven't 
long  to  live."  The  Marquis,  overcome  with  rage  and  fear, 
tells  Pierre  that  he  is  his  own  son,  then  falls,  stricken  with 
apoplexy.  Mme.  de  Savieres'  husband,  a  doctor,  is  present. 
After  ausculting  the  Marquis,  he  says:  "Acute  Ataxia. 
In  six  months  he  will  be  blind  and  completely  paralyzed." 
— "  Will  he  keep  his  reason  ?  " — "  Yes.  He  may  last 
twenty  years." — "  How  horrible !  "  says  Mme.  de  Savieres. 
"  And  who  will  take  care  of  him?  " — Pierre  replies:  "  I." 

Why  is  it  that  in  the  realm  of  modern  drama  so  many 
writers  have  in  their  first  few  efforts  produced  their  best 
work,  their  most  lasting  plays  ?  Sudermann,  Max  Halbe, 
Frank  Wedekind,  Donnay;  to  a  certain  extent  Haupt- 
mann,  Lemaitre,  and  now  Lavedan,  appear  to  have  reached 
their  highest  point  of  development  during  the  first  eight 
or  ten  years  of  activity.  Without  trying  to  delve  too  deep 
into  the  reasons,  we  may  at  least  note  that  many  of  these 


14  HENRI  LAVEDAN 

dramatists  were  at  first  content  merely  to  draw  characters 
and  not  to  comment  at  any  great  length  upon  them;  to 
paint,  not  to  explain.  Lavedan  painted  a  great  portrait  in 
the  Prince  d'Aurec;  in  Cyrano  de  Bergerac,  Rostand  did 
the  same  thing.  In  Le  Marquis  de  Priola,  Lavedan  at- 
tempted, with  a  good  deal  of  success,  to  explain  motives 
and  point  a  moral;  in  Chantecler,  Rostand  went  to  the  very 
depths  of  his  hero's  character,  with  remarkable  success. 
What  Rostand  will  do  in  the  future  remains  to  be  seen; 
what  Lavedan  will  do — well,  he  seems  to  have  done.  And 
his  latest  plays  cause  us  to  regret  his  defection  from  the 
early  manner.  With  advancing  years,  that  philosophical 
penchant  which  is  innate  in  Frenchmen  has  got  the  upper 
hand  with  Lavedan.  In  The  Marquis  de  Priola  he  went 
as  far  as  an  artist  can  safely  go ;  but  with  The  Duel  he 
went  a  step  beyond.  In  Le  Gout  du  Vice,  in  spite  of 
occasional  flashes  reminiscent  of  the  days  of  Le  Nouveau 
Jen,  he  is  so  pointedly  moral  that  we  begin  to  feel  that 
we  are  being  preached  at. 

Le  Duel  (1905)  is  concerned  with  the  duel  of  two  broth- 
ers, for  a  woman.  Doctor  Morey,  a  well-known  alienist, 
a  Freethinker  and  Atheist,  and  the  Abbe  Daniel,  a  devout 
priest,  are  the  brothers  in  question.  The  Duke  de  Chailles 
is  a  degenerate  morphine-fiend,  under  treatment  at  the 
Doctor's  sanatarium.  He  has  only  a  few  months  to  live. 
The  Duchess,  coming  regularly  to  see  her  husband,  has 
been  attracted  by  the  Doctor,  who  in  turn  is  drawn  toward 
the  charming  woman,  whose  ideas  he  feels  are  so  well  in 
accord  with  his  own.  Daniel,  whom  the  Doctor  has  not 
seen  for  ten  years — their  incompatible  ideas  have  kept  them 
apart — comes  to  ask  him  to  assist  in  the  founding  of  a 
dispensary.  If  Henri  refuses  to  lend  his  support,  per- 
haps his  rich  friend  the  Duchess  will  undertake  to  endow 
it?  The  duel  begins  when  Henri  allows  Daniel  to  speak 


HENRI  LAVEDAN  15 

to  her  "  on  the  condition  that  she  is  not  to  know  I  am  your 
brother."  The  thesis  of  the  play  is  at  once  made  apparent, 
as  Daniel  says :  "  You  struggle  against  disease,  I  against 
passion;  you  save  the  body,  I  the  soul.  Why,  at  this 
moment  I  have  among  my  penitents  a  woman  .  .  .  whose 
name  I  do  not  know,  whose  face  I  have  never  seen.  .  .  . 
She  is  unhappily  married,  and  she  loves  a  man  who  is  not 
her  husband.  A  dozen  times  she  was  on  the  point  of 
revealing  her  love  to  him  ...  a  dozen  times  she  came 
to  my  confessional  for  power  to  resist.  Each  time  she  re- 
ceived that  power,  and  overcame  temptation.  .  .  ."  Of 
course,  the  unknown  is  the  Duchess.  From  this  point  on, 
the  play  becomes  a  series  of  scenes,  between  the  Duchess 
and  Daniel,  and  between  the  Duchess  and  Henri.  When 
she  is  with  the  former,  she  is  ready  to  take  the  veil,  when 
with  the  latter,  she  is  ready  to  give  in  to  him.  The  dead- 
lock is  finally  broken  by  the  news  that  the  Duke,  in  a  fit 
of  madness,  has  thrown  himself  from  the  window,  and  will 
doubtless  die  within  a  few  hours.  Meantime,  a  strange 
metamorphosis  has  taken  place  in  the  mind  of  Daniel.  To- 
gether with  Henri  and  the  Duchess  he  has  gone  to  the 
Bishop  for  advice:  he  cannot  let  his  brother  marry  the 
Duchess.  His  soul  has  been  in  the  struggle,  and  he  is 
jealous  of  his  brother's  victory.  But  when  it  is  learned 
that  the  Duke  is  dead,  and  after  thinking  over  the 
Bishop's  advice,  he  conquers  his  personal  feelings,  and  bids 
the  Duchess  marry  Henri,  saying  that  it  is  her  duty  to 
become  a  wife  and  a  mother.  Too  deeply  wounded  by 
the  duel,  he  will  leave  for  the  Orient  in  company  with 
the  Bishop.  Henri  then  takes  the  Duchess  in  his  arms. 

The  idea  is  excellent,  the  dialogue  concise  and  swift, 
and  the  struggle  as  clearly  defined  as  a  Hervieu  could 
ask  for.  But  after  all,  we  may  well  ask,  what  of  it?  The 
knot  is  cut  just  at  the  critical  point.  Opportune  deaths, 


16  HENRI  LAVEDAN 

the  recognition  of  long-lost  fathers,  and  convenient  mar- 
riages, are  all  very  well  for  conventional  comedies;  but 
where  the  problem  is  of  so  great  importance  as  Lavedan 
would  lead  us  to  believe  it  in  Le  Duel,  we  can  accept 
no  such  facile  denouement.  Certainly,  the  Duke  was 
likely  to  kill  himself  at  any  time;  but  his  doing  so  just 
when  the  Duchess  would  have  to  decide  her  own  fate,  ruins 
the  thesis  set  before  us.  The  Duchess  is  being  continu- 
ally swayed  between  two  strong  wills,  which  correspond 
with  two  selves  within  her,  but  when  the  Deux  ex  machina 
steps  in,  she  is  allowed  to  escape.  At  the  end  of  the  play, 
she  is  no  different  from  what  she  was  as  the  curtain  rose 
on  the  first  act.  The  Duchess  therefore  ceases  to  interest 
us.  Daniel,  near  the  close  of  the  play,  begins  to  interest 
us  only  as  he  decides  to  depart  for  the  Far  East. 

Since  Le  Duel  Lavedan  appears  to  be  searching  round 
for  new  subjects.  The  aristocracy  and  the  boulevard  still 
possess  charms  for  him,  while  the  history  of  France,  and 
the  question  of  war,  cause  him  to  hover  about  the  haunts 
of  his  first  successes.  Sire  (1909)  is  a  romantic  play, 
with  a  historical  background.  A  young  man  pretends  that 
he  is  the  lost  Louis  XVII,  and  convinces  a  half-crazy 
countess  that  he  is  really  the  son  of  Louis  XVI.  Through 
five  acts  of  conventional  intrigue,  the  Figaro-like  Roulette 
manages  to  hold  the  interest. 

"  In  Le  Gout  du  Vice  "  (1911),  says  Lavedan,  "  I  have 
tried  to  change  my  manner;  I  have  done  my  best  to  trans- 
form myself,  simply  to  give  variety  to  my  work.  Those 
who  have  seen  Sire,  Le  Marquis  de  Priola,  and  Le  Duel 
will  notice  this,  and  judge  whether  or  no  I  have  succeeded." 
Yes,  he  has  changed  his  manner;  and  we  regret  it,  we  who 
have  seen  the  plays  he  mentions! 

The  latest  printed  play1  is  Servir  (1912).  A  consider- 
1  Petard  was  produced  in  the  spring  of  1914. 


HENRI  LAVEDAN  17 

able  departure  from  all  the  preceding  "  manners  "  of  the 
author,  it  is  certainly  his  best  work  since  Le  Duel.  This  is 
the  story  of  a  father  who  is  a  born  soldier,  but  who  has  been 
forced  to  remain  a  civilian;  and  his  son,  who  is  an  officer, 
but  whose  scruples  of  conscience  are  radically  opposed  to 
the  "  profession."  This  son  has  discovered  an  explosive 
many  times  more  powerful  than  any  heretofore  known,  but 
refuses  to  reveal  the  secret  for  the  service  of  the  Patrie. 
The  father,  driven  by  his  innate  desire  to  serve — a  desire, 
the  author  is  careful  to  tell  us,  to  engage  in  war  as  such, 
not  primarily  in  the  interest  of  his  country — spies  on  his 
son  and  discovers  the  secret.  The  big  scene  is  the  struggle 
between  father  and  son,  with  the  mother  between  them. 
The  father  tears  the  buttons  from  the  son's  uniform,  say- 
ing that  he  is  unworthy  his  position.  The  mother,  sym- 
pathizing with  her  child,  interferes  and  attempts  to  kill 
herself.  This  brings  the  men  to  their  senses.  Then  the 
father  tells  them  that  he  has  been  commissioned  by  the 
government  to  prevent  the  mobilization  of  the  enemy's 
army  in  Morocco,  and  lets  them  know  further  that  an- 
other son,  a  soldier  in  Morocco,  has  been  murdered  by  that 
enemy  which  is  now  about  to  make  war  on  France.  The 
sense  of  personal  injury  then  turns  the  tables:  mother, 
father,  son,  are  actuated  by  a  desire  for  vengeance,  and 
they  all  welcome  the  boom  of  the  cannon  announcing  the 
declaration  of  war. 

The  family  struggle,  and  its  relation  to  national  affairs, — 
the  main  idea  of  the  play, — are  very  skilfully  and  inter- 
estingly welded  together.  Yet  the  son  as  a  French  officer 
is  hard  to  accept.  How  could  such  a  man  think  as  he 
thinks,  and  still  remain  an  officer?  Again  Lavedan  has 
strained  a  point  in  order  that  his  thesis  might  be  worked 
out. 

When  an  author  begins  his  career  and  wins  his  great- 


18  HENRI  LAVEDAN 

est  successes  in  one  kind  of  work,  we  are  loath  to  see  him 
venture  far  afield.  Often  he  does  this  at  his  peril.  Lavedan 
is  at  his  best  in  pure  character-drawing,  like  the  Prince 
d'Aurec;  in  other  fields  he  has  done  sincere  and  good  work, 
but  in  those  other  fields  there  is  lacking  that  sure  touch, 
that  evenness  which  he  once  taught  us  to  expect.  He 
may  still  do  significant  work,  he  could  hardly  do  other- 
wise, but — "  II  y  a  la  maniere !  " 

PLAYS   PRODUCED: 

Une  Famille    1891  (One  Family) 

Le  Prince  d'Aurec 1892  (The  Prince  d'Aurec) 

Les  Deux  Noblesse* 1894  (The  Two  Nobilities) 

Viveurs!    1895  (High  Life !) 

Catherine    1898 

Le  Nouveau  Jeu 1898  (The  Latest  Fad) 

Le   Vieux  Marcheur 1899  (The  Old  Sport) 

Le  Marquis  de  Priola 1902  (The  Marquis  de  Priola) 

Varennes  (in  collaboration  with  G. 

Lendtre)    1904 

Le  Duel   1905  (The  Duel) 

Sire    1909  (Sire) 

Le  Gout  du  Vice 1911  (The  Taste  for  Vice) 

Servir    1913  (To  Serve) 

Pttard     1914 

(Lavedan's  Catherine,  The  Duel,  and  Sire  have  been  produced 
in  the  United  States  in  English, — Catherine,  by  Miss  Annie  Rus- 
sell in  October,  1898,  The  Duel,  by  Mr.  Otis  Skinner  in  February, 
1906,  and  Sire,  by  Mr.  Skinner  in  January,  1911. 


"  Criticism,"  says  Jules  Lemaitre,  "  is  the  art  of  enjoy- 
ing books."  M.  Lemaitre  has  practised  what  he  preached, 
and  in  some  thirty  thick  volumes  he  has  amassed  his  en- 
joyment of  books  and  plays.  Les  Impressions  de  Theatre 
and  Les  Contemporains  have  already  assumed  a  place  which 
they  will  long  occupy  among  the  most  thoughtful  and 
charming  essays  of  the  Nineteenth  Century. 

When  he  speaks  of  Shakespeare  and  Moliere,  it  is  as 
if  he  had  never  heard  of  either  before;  he  records  his  first 
impressions  of  Hamlet  and  Le  Misanthrope  as  if  these 
plays  had  just  come  fresh  from  the  press.  Unhampered 
by  the  accumulated  prejudices  of  former  generations,  he 
analyzes  in  a  leisurely  and  unorthodox  manner  each  work, 
recording  with  absolute  sincerity  his  opinions  on  Georges 
Ohnet  and  Racine,  Paul  Bourget  and  Rousseau.  When 
he  tells  us  that  Racine  is  worth  reading,  that  the  author 
of  the  Ironmaster  is  vastly  overrated,  we  feel  ready  at 
once  to  believe  him.  His  independence  of  thought  is 
naively  manifested  in  his  essay  on  Maupassant,  in  which 
he  says  that  he  was  at  first  inclined  to  underrate  the  genius 
of  the  young  writer  simply  because  the  great  Flaubert 
spoke  of  him  in  such  glowing  terms.  Here  is  the  opening 
paragraph  of  that  essay: 

"  I  used  to  go  from  time  to  time  to  see  Gustave  Flaubert 
at  Croisset  (that  was  in  1880).  It  appears  that  I  met 
Maupassant  there  one  day,  just  as  he  was  leaving  for  Paris. 
At  least,  that  is  what  Maupassant  says.  I  really  don't  re- 

19 


20  JULES  LEMAITRE 

member:  I  have  the  most  capricious  memory  in  the  world. 
But  I  recall  clearly  that  Flaubert  spoke  enthusiastically 
of  his  young  friend,  and  that  he  read  to  me,  with  that 
sonorous  voice  of  his,  a  story  which  appeared  some  months 
later  in  the  volume  entitled  Des  Vers.  It  had  to  do  with 
the  separation  of  two  lovers,  after  a  last  walk  in  the  coun- 
try: he  was  brutal,  she  quietly  desperate.  I  thought  it  not 
at  all  bad,  but  I  was  somewhat  on  my  guard  because  of 
the  aged  Flaubert's  extravagant  admiration,  so  that  I  did 
not  at  that  time  realize  that  it  was  really  very  good.  Mau- 
passant was  at  that  time,  etc.  .  .  ." 

This  informal,  easy,  conversational  way  of  writing  criti- 
cism makes  Lemaitre  delightful  reading,  so  that  we  too  are 
likely  perhaps  to  behave  as  the  critic  did  in  the  presence 
of  the  "  aged  Flaubert,"  and  be  on  our  guard,  and  fail 
to  see  the  extraordinary  merit  of  the  criticism.  Profundity 
of  thought  and  heaviness  of  style  do  not  of  necessity  go 
hand  in  hand.  LemaitBe  is  as  profound  as  Brunetiere,  the 
only  difference  between  the  two  being  that  Lemaitre  amuses 
us  with  unexpected  quips  and  turns,  amusing  anecdotes, 
and  helps  us  to  retain  important  points  which  might  other- 
wise escape  us,  while  Brunetiere,  saying  perhaps  as  much, 
risks  tiring  us,  because  his  method  of  presentation  lacks 
lightness,  variety,  esprit.  Sarcey,  that  benevolent  des- 
pot of  the  French  stage  for  nearly  half  a  century,  is 
more  closely  akin  to  Lemaitre  than  Brunetiere,  by  rea- 
son of  his  simplicity  and  occasionally  brutal  sincerity; 
but  Sarcey  is  a  literary  bourgeois,  Lemaitre  an  aristo- 
crat. 

A  critic,  and  above  all  a  dramatic  critic,  who  ventures 
into  the  field  of  drama,  runs  grave  risks.  Do  not  his  brother 
critics  hold  him  up  to  the  standards  for  which  he  himself 
has  stood — and  many  others  for  which  he  has  not — and 
condemn  him  for  falling  short  of  those  principles  the  non- 
observance  of  which  he  has  so  often  censured  in  others? 


JULES  LEMAITRE  21 

Lemaitre's  first  play,  Revoltee,  was  produced  in  1889-  It 
was  not  a  success,  and  was  received  with  a  good  deal  of 
adverse  comment. 

Born  in  a  little  town  in  Touraine  in  1853,  he 
received  his  early  education  in  his  native  province, 
pursued  his  studies  later  in  Paris,  taught  school  in  Le 
Havre  and  two  other  French  cities,  and,  for  a  short  time, 
in  Algiers.  At  the  age  of  thirty-one  he  permanently  estab- 
lished himself  in  Paris,  where  he  had  been  summoned  to 
fill  the  position  of  dramatic  critic  on  the  Journal  des 
Debats.  At  that  time  he  was  known  to  a  few  readers  as 
the  author  of  a  slight  volume  of  youthful  verses,  some  of 
them  crude  and  some  delicate,  called  Les  Medallions 
(1880),  and  some  of  those  essays  which  were  later  col- 
lected in  Les  Contemporains.  The  poems  were  followed 
seven  years  later  by  a  collection  of  short  stories,  Serenus, 
which  gave  evidence  of  real  creative  power,  and  proved 
the  writer  well  capable  of  telling  a  story  in  direct  and 
convincing  terms.  The  versatile  young  man  was  spread- 
ing his  wings,  then,  in  the  late  'eighties;  but  as  he  mani- 
fested a  desire  to  fly  in  the  direction  of  the  stage,  he  a 
dramatic  critic,  his  confreres  took  umbrage,  and  declared 
— with  more  or  less  truth — that  he  had  not  proved  him- 
self a  dramatist  by  writing  Revoltee.  For  the  next  few 
years  he  continued  writing  plays,  finding  time  however 
to  write  one  of  his  finest  works,  the  novel  Les  Rois  (1893). 
As  we  are  primarily  concerned  with  Lemaitre  the  drama- 
tist, we  must  content  ourselves  by  accepting  the  verdict 
of  critics  and  public,  and  recording  the  fact  that  Le- 
maitre's only  novel  still  remains  one  of  the  most  pop- 
ular and  highly-thought-of  novels  of  the  generation.  Conies 
blancs  (1900)  and  En  marge  des  vieux  livres  (1905- 
1907)  are  likewise  among  the  most  charming  works  of  the 
author. 


22  JULES  LEMAITRE 

Revoltee  is  decidedly  a  first  attempt,  crude  and  full  of 
"  influences."  It  seems  as  if  the  first-nighter  had  relied 
a  little  too  much  on  scattered  tag-ends  of  Ibsen  and  some 
of  the  young  innovators  of  the  Theatre  Libre.  The  play 
might  well  be  called  Impressions  de  Theatre.  A  reading 
of  the  piece  leaves  one  with  the  feeling  that  he  has  seen 
it  all  before:  the  stupid  and  uninteresting  Georg  Tesman 
husband,  and  the  misunderstood  wife,  with  her  struggle 
for  freedom,  self-expression.  There  is  some  hesitancy  in 
the  story,  the  plot  moves  on  the  wheels  of  time-worn  con- 
ventions, there  is  a  duel  and  a  final  reconciliation  in  which 
it  is  hard  to  believe.  But  the  play  is  noteworthy  by  reason 
of  some  good  bits  of  characterization;  Helene  and  her 
professor  husband  Rousseau,  are  what  render  Revoltee 
worth  reading.  Lemaitre  was  the  first  to  realize  the  weak- 
ness of  his  work:  in  his  own  criticism  of  it  he  says: 
"  You  see,  the  last  act  is  very  mediocre — now  I  have 
thought  of  a  much  better  one,  but  it  is  too  late."  In- 
stead of  rewriting  the  play,  he  proceeded  to  write  an- 
other. 

An  incident  serves  to  reveal  Lemaitre's  ideas  on  play- 
writing,  ideas  which  were  soon  to  develop  and  form  the 
basis  of  many  of  his  later  plays.  Sarcey  said  of  the  next 
play,  Le  Depute  Leveau,  "  This  is  no  play."  To  which 
Lemaitre  replied,  "  Je  m'en  moque,  si  c'est  de  la  vie." 
(Literally,  "  I  don't  care  a  hang,  so  long  as  it  is  life.") 
It  was  hardly  that,  but  the  answer  was  worthy  of  its 
author. 

Le  Depute  Leveau  (1890)  is  well  written,  well  con- 
structed, and  much  nearer  "  life  "  than  Revoltee,  but  it  is 
still  far  from  Le  Pardon  and  La  Mossier e.  It  is  a  satire 
on  the  parvenu  politician,  and  is  concerned  with  his  love- 
affair  and  subsequent  divorce.  Leveau,  after  falling  in 
love  with  the  Marquise  de  Greges,  seeks  to  divorce  his  wife, 


JULES  LEMAITRE  23 

but  is  at  first  met  with  considerable  opposition;  this  is 
later  broken  down  in  a  rather  unconvincing  manner.  The 
Marquise's  husband  has  made  friends  with  Leveau  for 
political  reasons,  but  Leveau  is  not  long  in  learning  that 
he  has  served  merely  as  an  instrument  in  the  Marquis' 
hands,  and  is  the  victim  of  an  intrigue.  The  denouement 
is  feeble:  Leveau  sends  the  Marquis  an  anonymous  letter, 
arranges  that  the  Marquise  and  himself  shall  be  found 
together,  irreparably  compromised,  and  that  he  (the  Mar- 
quis) will  be  forced  to  divorce  his  wife.  The  plot  works, 
the  divorce  is  obtained,  and  we  are  led  to  suppose  that 
Leveau  ultimately  becomes  the  husband  of  the  Mar- 
quise. The  story  is  "  theatrical,"  but  there  are  numer- 
ous bits  of  characterization  which  partly  redeem  the 
play. 

Mariage  blanc  (1891)  is  one  of  the  most  charming  and 
interesting  comedies  of  its  day.  Jacques  de  Tievre,  a 
blase  man  of  the  world,  a  relic  of  twenty  years'  dissipa- 
tion, comes  to  Mentone  on  the  Riviera,  to  rest.  There  he 
meets  a  Mme.  Aubert  and  her  two  daughters:  Marthe, 
and  her  half-sister,  Simone,  a  young  girl  in  the  last  stages 
of  consumption.  His  assiduous  visits  are  interpreted  by 
the  mother  and  Marthe  as  a  desire  on  his  part  to  marry 
Marthe,  but  it  is  really  the  invalid  who  has  attracted  him. 
The  idea  of  making  love  to  a  young  woman  who  has  but 
a  few  months  to  live  appeals  to  his  abnormal  imagination. 
He  tells  Mme.  Aubert  of  his  strange  passion;  she  is  natu- 
rally astonished,  but,  noticing  that  Simone  reciprocates 
his  love,  and  not  wishing  to  risk  the  shock  which  a  refusal 
of  Jacques  as  a  suitor  would  cause  to  the  girl,  she  gives 
her  consent  to  the  marriage.  At  first  the  disappointed  and 
wounded  Marthe  opposes  the  match,  but  as  Simone  is  sud- 
denly taken  ill,  she  "  forgives  "  Jacques.  But  she  can- 
not forgive  the  sister  who,  she  believes,  robbed  her  of  a 


24 

husband,  and,  partly  out  of  spite,  partly  by  inclination, 
she  gives  Jacques  a  rendezvous.  Simone  surprises  the  two, 
and  falls  dead.1 

The  interest  of  the  play  lies  in  its  strange  plot,  and  in 
the  characters  of  Marthe  and  Jacques.  Lemaitre  tells  us, 
in  answer  to  one  of  the  numerous  attacks  made  on  the  play: 
"  My  mistake  was  in  believing  that  Jacques  de  Tievre's 
idea  was  in  nowise  out  of  the  ordinary,  that  his  behavior 
and  sentiments  were  easy  to  understand,  quite  acceptable 
as  a  matter  of  course.  And  why  should  I  not  have  thought 
so?  Jacques'  dream  is  one  which  I  myself  once  had,  some 
twelve  or  fifteen  years  ago,  spontaneously,  in  regard  to  a 
young  girl  I  met  in  a  family  '  pension  '  where  I  took  my 
meals.  Doubtless,  it  was  only  a  dream  .  .  .  but  in  reality 
that  dream  did  not  seem  so  absurd  or  impossible.  Above 
all,  there  appeared  to  be  nothing  immoral  in  it."  But 
Jacques'  attitude  may  be  condemned  on  the  grounds  of 
morality;  for,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  perhaps  he  loved 
Simone  after  his  marriage,  he  married  her  out  of  pity 
and,  to  a  certain  extent,  because  the  whole  adventure  was 
romantic  and  piquant.  Marthe  as  a  character  is  scarcely 
more  than  a  sketch ;  but  how  deft  are  the  touches  which 
make  her  live,  how  deeply  we  feel  with  her  her  sense  of 
injury  and  loss!  Will  Lemaitre  ever  write  a  play  about 
Marthe,  expanding  her  field  of  action,  entering  with  greater 
detail  into  her  inmost  thoughts? 

Two  years  after  Mariage  blanc  came  Flipote,  a  rather 
rigid,  "  well-made  "  piece.  The  characterization  is  good, 
but  the  story  decidedly  banal.  Two  lovers  "  separate  the 
day  they  find  themselves  rivals  in  public  favor."  Between 


1  The  original  ending,  according  to  Lemaitre,  was  this:  Marthe, 
knowing  that  any  sort  of  exposure  would  be  certain  death  to  her 
sister,  opens  a  window  in  the  room  where  Simone  is  lying,  which 
results  in  the  consumptive's  death. 


JULES  LEMAITRE  25 

Manage  blanc  and  Les  Rois,  a  comparatively  weak  piece 
of  work  can  easily  be  forgiven. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  the  title  of  Lemaitre's  only 
novel  was  Les  Rois.  That  novel  he  dramatized  in  1893. 
The  play  enjoyed  great  success  at  the  Theatre  de  la  Renais- 
sance. Like  many  of  the  plays  of  Fran£ois  de  Curel,  the 
austere  writer  of  Les  Fossiles,  this  was  based  upon  a  rather 
dramatic  newspaper  clipping:  the  disappearance  of  a  prince 
of  the  House  of  Austria.  Like  Curel,  Lemaitre  used  the 
incident  merely  as  an  excuse  for  a  psychological  work  of 
deep  import.  The  old  King  of  Alfania  has  abdicated  in 
favor  of  his  son  Hermann,  a  young  man  whose  principles 
of  democracy  and  progress  are  in  direct  opposition  to  his 
father's.  As  he  ascends  the  throne,  he  is  confronted  with 
the  grave  problem  of  a  popular  uprising,  the  object  of 
which  is  the  increase  of  the  rights  and  power  of  the  people. 
Once  crowned,  Hermann,  acting  contrary  to  the  advice  of 
his  wife  Wilhelmina  and  his  ministers,  decides  in  favor 
of  the  people.  Hermann's  revolutionary  doctrines  are  not 
all  his  own,  for  a  woman,  Frida  de  Thalberg,  his  former 
mistress,  had  imbued  him  with  the  spirit  of  freedom  which 
caused  so  great  a  disturbance  in  the  kingdom.  Awdotia 
Latanief,  a  "  revolutionary  mystic,"  friend  of  Frida,  has 
likewise  had  much  to  do  in  the  shaping  of  the  mind  of  the 
young  king.  Meanwhile,  the  people,  having  tasted  of  free- 
dom, invade  the  palace,  demanding  further  rights  and  more 
power.  Giving  way  to  the  entreaties  of  his  wife  Hermann 
orders  the  General  to  "do  his  duty  " ;  the  crowd  is  dis- 
persed, some  revolutionaries  are  killed,  and  for  the  moment 
the  revolt  is  put  down.  False  to  his  own  principles,  Her- 
mann decides  to  go  to  Frida  for  consolation;  she  is  sta- 
tioned not  far  away,  at  Loewenberg.  He  leaves,  followed 
by  Wilhelmina.  At  the  Pavilion  of  Orsova  are  Frida,  the 
king,  and  Awdotia.  The  two  women,  at  first  alone,  discuss 


26  JULES  LEMAITRE 

the  political  situation  and  Awdotia  proposes  that  Hermann 
be  assassinated  in  order  that  the  revolution  may  take  its 
course  unhindered;  but  Frida,  fearing  for  the  life  of  the 
man  she  loves,  promises  that  if  she  be  left  alone  with  him, 
she  will  induce  him  to  abdicate.  Hermann  and  Frida  are 
then  left  together ;  Frida's  passion  for  the  liberty  of  Alfania 
has  now  given  way  to  her  particular  passion  for  its  king. 
"  I  don't  want  to  be  the  shameful  rival  of  the  Queen  of 
Alfania;  but  if  you  are  truly  unhappy  and  tired  of  your 
role  of  king  and  will  abdicate,  then,  then,  I  will  be  yours  !  " 
Hermann  is  willing  to  give  up  all  for  Frida;  but  just  at 
this  moment  the  figure  of  Wilhelmina  is  seen  in  the  back- 
ground. Ignorant  of  the  danger,  Hermann  takes  Frida  in 
his  arms.  Wilhelmina  enters,  takes  the  revolver  Awdotia 
has  left  on  the  table,  and  aims  at  Frida;  but  Hermann, 
stepping  between  them,  receives  the  shot  and  dies  a  mo- 
ment later.  Wilhelmina  tells  the  aged  king  what  she  has 
done,  and  he  replies,  making  her  the  Regent:  "You  have 
done  so  much  to  defend  the  crown,  that  I  know  of  no 
one  in  whose  hands  it  could  safer  be !  "  This  drama  of 
"  passion  and  ideas "  is  thoroughly  effective,  except 
the  final  act;  the  psychological  insight  of  the  author  is 
deeper  than  in  any  other  of  his  plays,  with  the  exception 
of  Le  Pardon.  But  the  interest  is  so  often  shifted  that 
we  are  left  a  little  bewildered.  If  Lemaitre  had  concen- 
trated more  on  the  characters  of  Hermann,  Frida,  and 
Wilhelmina,  we  should  doubtless  have  had  a  finer  work. 
That  finer  work  was  to  come  two  years  later. 

With  L'Age  difficile  (1895)  Lemaitre  gave  proof  of  his 
command  over  the  dramatic  medium.  With  perfect  ease 
he  conducts  his  hero,  a  man  of  middle  age,  through  danger- 
ous love  affairs,  and  supplies  us  with  a  series  of  delightful 
genre  scenes.  Those  parts  of  the  play  dealing  with  the 
"  Indian  Summer  "  of  Chambray,  his  meeting  an  old  sweet- 


JULES  LEMAITRE  27 

heart  after  many  years  of  separation  from  her,  are  handled 
with  great  dexterity  and  gentle  tenderness. 

Up  to  the  year  1895  Lemaitre  had  made  various  attempts 
with  a  good  measure  of  success  in  the  delineation  of  char- 
acter; in  Les  Rois  and  Manage  blanc  he  had  gone  far  into 
the  analysis  of  human  motives ;  but  not  until  Le  Pardon 
(1895)  did  all  his  power  of  presenting  human  beings  and 
dealing  with  real  problems  come  to  its  fullest  fruition. 
Les  Rois,  as  we  have  seen,  was  ragged  in  places,  Mariage 
blanc  somewhat  abnormal  and  inclined  to  be  over-senti- 
mental; Le  Pardon  comes  as  near  being  a  Slice  of  Life  as 
Porto-Riche's  Amour euse,  or  any  of  its  numerous  progeny. 

For  commercial,  and  occasionally  for  artistic  reasons, 
several  modern  plays  of  full  length  contain  but  five,  four, 
or  three  characters.  The  charming  comedy,  The  Mollusc, 
by  Hubert  Henry  Davies,  and  Frangois  de  Curel's  La 
Danse  devant  le  miroir  contain  but  four  characters  each. 
Le  Pardon  has  only  three.  A  dramatist  who  is  able  to 
write  a  play  with  so  few  characters  and  make  that  play 
interesting  and  effective  must  be  acknowledged  by  reason 
of  that  tour  de  force  an  accomplished  man  of  the  theater. 
In  the  second  act  of  The  Thief,  Henry  Bernstein  has  writ- 
ten a  duologue  which  for  dramatic  tension  could  hardly 
be  surpassed;  but  the  intrinsic  interest  of  the  situa- 
tion itself,  which  had  been  prepared  for  in  the  foregoing 
act  through  the  agency  of  a  number  of  people,  helped 
sustain  the  act.  Lemaitre's  story  is  simple  and  common- 
place: Suzanne  has  been  unfaithful  to  Georges  and  wishes 
to  become  reconciled  with  him.  Their  friend  Therese 
brings  about  the  reconciliation,  but  meantime  Georges  falls 
in  love  with  her.  Suzanne  learns  of  this,  and  is  at  first 
not  inclined  to  forgive  her  husband;  then,  as  Georges 
makes  it  clear  to  her  that  his  "  slip  "  was  momentary,  acci- 
dental, that  he  will  ever  after  be  a  model  husband,  Suzanne 


28  JULES  LEMAITRE 

gives  in.  Here  is  no  mystery,  here  are  few  opportunities 
for  the  "  grand  style !  "  What  could  Bernstein  have  done 
with  this  plot? 

In  Le  Pardon  Lemaitre  has  voluntarily  done  away  with 
such  moving  scenes  as  are  ordinarily  called  "  effective  ". 
In  the  story  he  conceived  he  might  have  made  room  for 
many  of  these,  but  he  preferred  to  enter  into  a  detailed 
analysis  of  the  three  characters  he  chose  to  treat.  With  a 
keenness  and  austerity  close  akin  to  the  literary  hauteur 
of  Paul  Hervieu,  he  has  applied  himself  solely  to  inquiring 
into  the  thoughts  and  feelings  of  Suzanne,  Georges,  and 
Therese.  In  brief  he  says:  Here  is  what  happens  every 
day;  it  is  not  pleasant,  it  is  not  edifying,  but  it  is  life.  I 
have  attempted  to  use  this  episode  and  tried  to  demon- 
strate the  subtle  workings  of  the  minds  of  these  three  peo- 
ple. If  Suzanne  is  unfaithful  to  her  husband,  how  will 
that  fact  affect  him?  If,  after  her  husband  has  forgiven 
her,  on  certain  conditions,  he  is  unfaithful  to  her,  how  will 
she  feel?  If  each  at  last  is  equally  guilty,  will  that 
balance  accounts?  Momentarily,  it  will,  says  Lemaitre; 
but  he  pessimistically  and  truly  adds  that  this  unhappy 
couple  is  no  more  secure  than  they  were  when  the  play 
opened.  Suzanne  says  as  the  curtain  falls:  "Oh  Georges, 
God  have  pity  on  us !  "  This  is  a  step  in  advance  of  the 
solutions  of  the  same  problem  offered  by  Hervieu  and 
Porto-Riche — in  Les  Tenailles  and  Amour euse.  In  Les 
Tenailles  the  unfaithful  wife  is  riveted  to  her  husband  by 
circumstances.  Her  fault  is  learned  years  after,  when  it 
is  too  late  for  her  to  remarry.  In  Amour  euse,  she  is 
brought  closer  to  her  husband,  because  only  through  her 
possible  loss  is  he  made  fully  aware  of  his  love  for  her. 

M.  Lemaitre  has  twice  in  his  plays  made  use  of  his  gift 
of  verse.  Two  slight  but  very  amusing  satirical  comedies 
mark  his  sole  attempts  in  the  realm  of  the  purely  fanciful: 


JULES  LEMAITRE  29 

La  Bonne  Helene  (1896),  a  two-act  parody  something  in 
the  manner  of  Meilhac  and  Halevy,  and  the  comic  opera, 
Le  Mariage  de  Telemaque  (1910),  in  which  Maurice  Don- 
nay  was  his  collaborator.  With  such  a  combination  it  is 
no  wonder  that  this  delightful  trifle  enjoyed  a  long  and 
successful  run  at  the  Opera  Comique. 

The  years  between  1889  and  1896  were  those  in  which 
Lemaitre's  development  as  a  dramatist  was  most  marked 
and  rapid;  Revoltee  is  the  weakest  of  the  plays,  and  Le 
Pardon  probably  the  most  close-knit,  best  thought  out,  and 
best  constructed.  This  development  of  his  dramatic  sense 
practically  stopped  seven  years  after  its  inception;  for  in 
none  of  the  three  important  plays  which  followed  Le 
Pardon  did  he  add  materially  to  his  skill  as  a  craftsman 
or  his  ideas  as  a  thinker.  L'Ainee  (1898),  La  Massiere, 
and  Bertrade  (1905)  are  the  products  of  a  man  who  has 
already  said  his  say.  Of  these  three  the  first  is  the  most 
original.  It  is  the  story  of  Pastor  Petermann,  a  stolid 
Swiss,  who  has  six  daughters  "  to  marry  off."  "  Think  of 
it,"  he  says,  "  six  daughters  to  marry !  It's  a  problem.  I 
must  show  them  off,  give  garden  parties,  teas,  concerts; 
bring  young  men  to  the  house,  and  hold  them.  Old  Pastor 
Petermann's  home  has  become  a  shrine  of  Love.  But  I  find 
it  all  very  pleasant,  this  contrast  between  the  sacred  mis- 
sion of  the  minister  of  the  Gospel  and  his  preoccupations 
as  father  of  a  family."  Here  is  a  good  subject  for  comedy, 
a  splendid  opportunity  which  the  dramatist  has  not  failed 
to  grasp.  The  first  two  acts  are  among  the  best  Lemaitre 
ever  wrote;  but  eventually  he  turns  all  his  attention  to 
The  Eldest  Daughter — L'Ainee.  There  is  some  resem- 
blance to  Marthe's  situation  in  Mariage  blanc,  as  little 
Norah  steps  in  and  appropriates  Mikils,  who  has  asked 
for  the  hand  of  Lia,  the  eldest.  Lia  has  ever  been  the 
drudge  of  the  family;  her  continual  sacrifices  have  always 


30  JULES  LEMAITRE 

been  accepted  as  a  matter  of  course.  Five  years  pass; 
Lia  is  thirty.  As  before,  she  is  the  drudge,  the  servant  of 
her  sisters  and  their  infant  children.  At  last  a  friend  of 
the  family,  Muller,  a  man  of  fifty,  asks  her  to  become  his 
wife.  She  does  not  love  him,  but  feels  that  she  must  take 
the  chance.  Just  as  she  accepts  his  offer,  the  seventeen- 
year-old  Dorothee  exercises  her  youthful  cunning,  and  wins 
Muller.  The  parents  do  not  hesitate  to  agree  to  the  match. 
In  silence,  Lia  accepts  defeat,  until  one  day,  at  a  garden 
party  given  by  Dursay,  a  neighbor,  she  is  astonished  on 
being  asked  to  dance  with  the  host's  nephew.  He  has 
divined  the  innate  charm  of  the  Eldest  and  begins  to  make 
love  to  her  in  true  romantic  style.  Dazzled  for  the  mo- 
ment by  the  unexpectedness  of  the  young  man's  declara- 
tions, she  goes  with  him  into  the  pavilion.  Someone  out- 
side calls  for  her.  "  If  you  go  now,"  says  Dursay,  "  you 
are  lost."  Terrified  at  the  prospect,  yet  yielding  to  an 
instinct  of  blind  fear  of  further  trouble,  she  opens  the 
door  and  calls,  "  Here  I  am !  "  Lia  seems  irreparably 
compromised ;  but,  strangely  enough,  Norah  and  Mikils 
side  with  her  and  persuade  the  Petermanns  that  "  Really, 
what  irritates  you  is  not  what  she  has  done  .  .  .  but  the 
scandal."  Madame  Petermann  agrees  with  Norah:  "  Don't 
you  see,  it  is  Lia's  very  innocence,  her  simplicity,  that  have 
been  her  undoing?  Is  it  for  us  to  be  severe  with  her,  us 
for  whom  she  has  sacrificed  everything?  ...  If  Lia  has 
sinned  ...  it  is  our  fault  ...  we  should  take  her  to  our 
hearts,  protect  her,  and  not  allow  her  to  suffer.  That's 
what  I  think !  "  And  the  erring  daughter  is  received  again 
into  the  bosom  of  her  family.  The  repentant  Dursay  makes 
an  offer  of  marriage,  which  is  at  length  accepted. 

The  end  is  a  little  banal,  but  a  comedy  must  end  in 
some  way.  The  author  was  concerned  with  Lia,  and  we 
must  admit  that  she  is  a  well-drawn  character. 


JULES  LEMAITRE  31 

La  Massiere  is  a  play  of  temperament.  The  painter 
Mareze  is  guilty  of  "  sentimental  infidelity  "  to  his  wife 
in  his  relations  with  little  Juliette,  an  assistant  in  his 
studio.  Mme.  Mareze,  who  suspects  that  her  husband's 
interest  in  the  girl  is  more  than  platonic,  extracts  a  promise 
from  him  not  to  receive  her  except  in  the  studio,  and  during 
"  business  hours  " ;  but  a  small  crisis  is  brought  on  as  she 
meets  Juliette  one  day  coming  from  Mareze's  private  studio 
in  his  home.  The  affair  is  simply  one  of  sentiment,  yet  it 
assumes  serious  proportions  in  Madame's  eyes.  Their  son 
Jacques,  however,  provides  a  solution  to  the  problem. 
Meeting  Juliette  one  day  by  chance,  he  falls  in  love  with 
her,  and  tells  his  parents  not  long  after  of  his  wish  to 
marry  her.  Mareze  is  deeply  troubled,  and  opposes  the 
marriage  from  selfish  motives;  but  his  wife,  seeing  the 
truth  of  the  matter — that  Jacques'  marriage  will  put  an 
end  to  the  other  affair — brings  the  two  together  and  in- 
duces her  husband  to  give  his  consent. 

The  plot  again  is  weak;  it  does  not  progress;  but  the 
idea,  like  that  in  the  perennially  charming  Ete  de  la  Saint 
Martin  of  Meilhac  and  Halevy,  the  attack  of  "  Indian 
Summer  "  which  comes  to  men  of  middle  age,  and  the  man- 
ner in  which  it  is  worked  out,  make  it  one  of  Lemaitre's 
most  delightful  plays. 

Bertrade  (1905)  is  the  latest  play.1  The  Marquis  de 
Mauferrand,  deep  in  debt,  has  a  daughter,  Bertrade,  who 
can  be  the  means  of  saving  her  father  and  establishing 
him  comfortably  for  the  remainder  of  his  life,  if  she  will 
only  consent  to  become  the  wife  of  a  rich  and  unscrupulous 
banker,  Chaillard.  But  she  refuses,  in  spite  of  the  im- 
precations and  threats  of  the  Marquis.  There  is  one  last 
means:  the  Marquis  can,  by  marrying  a  former  mistress, 

1  La  Princesse  de  Cteves  was  written  about  the  same  time,  pre- 
sumably. It  has  not  been  produced. 


32  JULES  LEMAITRE 

the  Baroness  de  Rommelsbach,  re-establish  himself  and 
pay  all  his  debts.  Again  Bertrade  steps  in,  convinces  her 
father  of  the  utter  shame  of  the  transaction,  and  persuades 
him  to  refuse.  This  he  does,  but,  as  there  is  no  solution 
left,  he  kills  himself.  This  is  again  a  rather  meretricious 
story,  and  would  have  little  value  were  it  not  for  the  study 
afforded  in  the  character  of  Bertrade.  The  dramatist's 
mistake  is  in  beginning  his  play  either  too  soon  or  too 
late.  Bertrade  is  too  busy  doing  things  to  allow  us  to 
see  very  much  of  her  personality.  She  begins  to  interest 
us  just  as  the  curtain  falls,  and  we  must  rely  on  our  imagi- 
nation to  fill  out  the  sketch.  Had  Lemaitre  begun  his  play 
at  this  point,  we  might  have  had  another  complete,  sym- 
pathetic, and  illuminating  picture  to  place  with  Suzanne, 
and  Lia,  and  Frida.  As  it  is,  he  has  given  us  the  ghost  of 
a  play,  a  clever  sketch,  with  a  melodramatic  plot. 

The  very  openness  of  mind  of  Jules  Lemaitre,  his  free- 
dom from  prejudice,  his  admirable  integrity,  render  im- 
possible any  categorical  summing  up  of  his  philosophy  of 
life.  He  is  at  once  skeptic,  believer,  poet,  politician,  Re- 
publican and  Royalist.  If,  in  the  realm  of  the  drama,  he 
has  failed  to  maintain  so  high  a  standard  as  some  of  his 
contemporaries,  if  in  the  final  analysis  he  cannot  be  con- 
sidered a  playwright  whose  total  output  entitles  him  to 
a  place  in  the  front  rank,  he  has  at  least  contributed  to 
the  drama  of  his  generation  one  play  insurpassable  of  its 
kind. 

PLAYS    PRODUCED  :* 

R6voltee  1899    (The    Woman    Who    Re- 
volted) 

Le  DtputS  Leveau 1890    (Deputy  Leveau) 

Mariage  blanc 1891    (A  Marriage  and  No  Mar- 
riage) 

1  La  Princesse  de  Cloves,  dramatized  from  Mme.  de  La  Fayette's 
novel  of  the  same  name,  has  not  yet  been  produced. 


33 


Flipote    1893 

Les  Rois    1893 

L'Age  difficile 1895 

Le  Pardon 1895 

La  Bonne  Helene 1896 

L'Ainte    1898 

La  Massiere    1905 

Bertrade    1905 

Le   Mariage    de    Telemaque    (in 
collaboration  with  M.  Donnay)  .1910    (Telemachus'  Marriage^ 


(The  Kings) 

(The  Difficult  Age) 

(The  Pardon) 

(Good  Helen) 

(The  Eldest  Sister) 

(The  Studio  Assistant) 


MAURICE  DONNAY 

"  A  play  is  a  love  story,  and  since  that  story  is  laid  in 
various  places,  we  are  led  to  believe  that  plays  differ." 

These  words  of  Maurice  Donnay  are  the  quintessence 
of  his  theory  of  the  theater.  To  him  life  is  a  spectacle 
from  which  the  love  element  must  be  extracted  and  molded 
into  an  art  form,  and  that  form  he  has  once  for  all  fixed 
in  his  finest  and  best-known  play,  Lovers.  Love,  within 
or  without  the  marriage  bond,  and  sex  attraction,  these  are 
the  eternal  realities  for  the  poetic  and  delicate  Parisian 
whose  plays  remain  the  delight  of  Tout-Paris. 

Amants  opens  at  the  home  of  Claudine  Rozay,  a  re- 
tired actress,  who  is  entertaining  a  number  of  children  at 
a  party  for  her  own  daughter.  "Of  the  correct  and  elegant 
mothers  who  have  brought  children,  not  one  is  married; 
each  of  them,  like  their  own  hostess,  is  comfortably  estab- 
lished in  a  liaison  which  assures  her,  together  with  luxuries, 
a  sort  of  outward  respectability,  and  permits  her  to  asso- 
ciate with  '  society.'  "  Georges  Vetheuil  is  a  guest  at  this 
gathering;  he  has  come  to  visit  the  hostess,  whom  he  once 
casually  met,  and  has  asked  to  be  allowed  to  call  and  fur- 
ther the  acquaintance.  In  an  artfully  conducted  scene, 
Claudine  gives  in  to  Georges'  overtures,  and  consents  to 
become  his  mistress.  The  Comte  de  Ruyseux,  Claudine's 
"  legitimate  "  lover,  the  father  of  Claudine's  little  daugh- 
ter, then  enters,  and  the  unsuspecting  count  meets  for 
the  first  time  his  new  rival.  After  Georges  leaves, 
Claudine  gives  vent  to  her  feelings  in  true  Donnayesque 
fashion : 

85 


36  MAURICE  DONNAY 

CLAUDINE.     What's  the  news? 

COUNT.     Nothing  much. 

CLAUDINE.  Tell  me  what  there  is!  No  gossip?  See 
anyone  ? 

COUNT.     Oh,  yes:  met  Lagny. 

CLAUDINE.     Ah,  what  did  he  have  to  say? 

COUNT.  Nothing — since  he  stopped  paying  attentions  to 
my  wife,  he  cuts  me  dead. 

CLAUDINE.     Really ! 

COUNT.  Or  rather,  since  he  has  dropped  out  of  the 
number  of  those  who  pay  attention  to  my  wife ! 

CLAUDINE.  Please,  Alfred,  you  know  how  I  detest  hear- 
ing you  say  such  things ! 

COUNT.     Why  so?     I'm  not  at  all  bitter. 

CLAUDINE.     Of  course:  you're  a  philosopher! 

COUNT.  I'm  not  a  philosopher;  only,  as  everyone  in 
Paris  knows  of  my  wife's  conduct,  my  assumed  ignorance 
of  the  fact  would  be  childish,  and  might  even  give  rise  to 
graver  suspicions;  to  brag  of  it  would  be  odious  in  the 
extreme ;  but  to  mention  it  before  certain  picked  individuals, 
like  you,  and  in  a  light  and  graceful  manner — that's  the 
only  decent  way  for  a  man  who  knows  well  the  exigencies 
of  life.  I  think  there's  a  splendid  place  to  fill  between 
Georges  Dandin  and  Othello. 

Meantime,  Claudine  has  been  living  with  Vetheuil.  but 
of  this  Ruyseux  knows  nothing.  One  night  Ruyseux  and 
Vetheuil  dine  at  Claud ine's,  and  Ruyseux  bids  her  good-by: 
he  is  leaving  for  Naples.  This  is  the  chance  the  lovers 
have  been  awaiting,  and  they  determine  to  take  advantage 
of  the  other's  absence  and  spend  the  time  at  Fontainebleau. 
Claudine  and  her  new  lover,  having  spent  some  months 
together,  come  to  the  inevitable  breaking-off,  and  the 
woman  gives  vent  to  her  pent-up  jealousy.  Rather  illogi- 
cally  Vetheuil  says  he  wants  his  liberty;  he  is  dissatisfied 
with  their  "  false  position,"  he  says.  Soon  after,  Claudine 
— sorry  for  her  precipitancy  in  the  scene  in  question — 
comes  to  him  and  implores  him  to  forgive  her,  but  he  re- 


MAURICE  DONNAY  37 

fuses,  recognizing  the  fact  that  he  is  ruining  himself.  He 
cannot  for  the  moment  see  her  point  of  view.  But  this  atti- 
tude is  only  temporary,  for  he  cannot  long  remain  obdurate 
before  the  manifold  charms  of  his  former  mistress.  Some- 
what afraid  of  himself  once  more,  he  resolves  to  go  away, 
and  break  off  their  idyllic  union  at  its  height,  in  Italy. 
Claudine  has  come  to  know  that  they  are  not  eternal 
lovers,  and  wishes  to  preserve  the  memory  of  their  past. 
Her  daughter,  too,  will  in  the  future  demand  more  of 
her  time  and  attention.  In  the  fourth  act  they  part. 

VETHEUIL.  Now,  Claudine,  please,  not  that!  You're 
breaking  my  heart.  Suppose,  now,  I  do  stay,  could  we 
live  again  that  Paris  life,  having  the  same  obstacles  to 
overcome  as  before?  With  those  same  scenes  over  and 
over  again?  They  would  wear  us  out,  bore  us  infinitely. 
You  know  very  well,  they  would  begin  again  the  day  we 
returned,  and  we  know  that  they  are  simply  the  result  of 
the  conditions  under  which  we  try  to  live,  under  which  we 
first  met.  Good  Heavens,  how  often  have  we  tried  to  be 
happy  in  spite  of  everything!  And  we  were  never  able — 
we  shouldn't  be  now  if  we  tried  again:  we'd  only  end  by 
hating  each  other,  perhaps  deceiving  each  other. 

CLAUDINE.     Oh,  no,  no! 

VETHEUIL.  Is  that  sort  of  existence  possible?  No,  it 
would  be  a  living  hell,  it  would  be  the  worst  sort  of  life, 
especially  after  these  weeks  we've  passed  together,  alone, 
so  alone !  We  have  been  too  happy,  and  we  cannot  find 
greater  happiness ;  we've  had  a  month  of  happiness  which 
nothing  can  ever  efface- 

CLAUDINE.  If  it  weren't  for  the  idea  of  our  separat- 
ing  

VETHEUIL.  Yes,  but  that  thought  kept  our  happiness  in 
bounds,  prevented  it  from  becoming  a  sort  of  brilliant  mad- 
ness, gave  it  a  tinge  of  melancholy.  It  was  like  the  even- 
ing mist  that  enshrouds  the  mountains,  softens  their  hard 
outlines,  and  makes  their  enormous  mass  things  of  infinite 
tenderness. 


38  MAURICE  DONNAY 

CLAUDINE.     Then — this  is  the  end — of  everything ? 

VETHEUIL.     Listen,  Claudine,  let  me  tell  you,  let  me 

CLAUDINE.  What  can  you  say  to  me?  Something  rea- 
sonable again?  Don't  you  feel  anything? 

VETHEUIL.  Claudine,  that's  not  kind —  If  you  only 
knew!  I'm  all  broken  up,  too;  I  have  a  steep  Calvary  as 
well  as  you,  but  I  say  this  must  be,  it  must !  It  must ! 

CLAUDINE.     Then  I'll  never  see  you  again ! 

VKTHEUIL.  Of  course  you  will — I'll  come  back,  later, 
after  we're  both  cured. 

CLAUDINE.     Do  you  believe  that? 

VETHEUIL.  Yes,  we  shall  be  cured.  I'm  not  leaving 
you  because  you  have  deceived  me,  and  you're  not  leaving 
me  for  a  similar  reason,  nor  are  we  tired  of  each  other. 
There  are  none  of  the  conventional  lies  between  us  nor 
the  usual  infamous  tricks  to  envenom  our  love  and  wound 
us  incurably:  we  are  breaking  off  because  you  have  your 
daughter  and  your  friend,  and  we  cannot  be  happy  with 
those  obstacles  to  overcome.  We  are  saying  good-by,  but  in 
what  a  marvelously  beautiful  land ! 

Vetheuil's  carriage  is  ready,  and  the  pair  must  sepa- 
rate. 


COACHMAN.  Excellency,  it  is  ten-fifteen;  we  have  just 
enough  time  to  reach  Locarno  for  the  eleven  o'clock  train. 

VETHEUIL.     I'm  coming  immediately. 

CLAUDINE.     What  did  he  say? 

VETHEUIL.  That  it  is  ten-fifteen,  and  I  had  only  time 
enough  to  be  at  Locarno  at  eleven. 

CLAUDINE.  Well — adieu!  [A  long  Iciss.}  Let  me  look 
at  you,  Georges,  Georges — you  seem  like  a  dying  man !  Go ! 
Go !  Don't  say  anything  more  to  me !  [She  falls  on  a 
bench,  her  head  bowed  low,  and  sobs.  The  bells  of  the 
carriage  are  heard  tinkling  in  the  distance,  then  are  heard 
no  more.] 

And  thus  ends  the  fourth  act.  Eighteen  months  later, 
Georges,  who  has  been  on  an  exploring  party  in  the  desert, 


MAURICE  DONNAY  39 

returns  and  meets  Claudine  at  a  reception  in  Paris.  It  is 
as  he  had  predicted:  the  intense  fire  of  their  passion  has 
given  way  to  quiet  affection. 

CLAUDINE.  And  now  what  are  you  going  to  do,  here 
in  Paris?  You  will  be  very  much  in  demand;  you  will  be 
feted  and  asked  everywhere ;  think  of  it,  an  explorer ! 

VETHEUIL.  I've  given  up  all  that;  you  see,  when  one 
has  lived  eighteen  months  as  I  have,  this  Parisian  life  is 
no  longer  possible.  .  .  .  No,  I'm  going  away  again,  I'm 
going  to  help  colonize. 

CLAUDINE.  You're  right,  but  it  won't  be  very  pleasant 
for  you  out  there,  all  alone. 

VKTHEUIL.  I  sha'n't  be  all  alone:  I'm  going  to  get  mar- 
ried— the  sister  of  one  of  my  comrades  on  this  expedition ! 

CLAUDINE.  What?  Why,  you've  hardly  been  back  a 
week!  You've  made  a  very  quick  decision,  haven't  you? 

VKTHEUIL.  I've  known  her  for  more  than  a  month. 
When  we  were  returning  to  France,  she  joined  us  at  Saigon, 
and  we  came  back  together  in  the  same  boat. 

CLAUDINE.     Is  she  pretty? 

VKTHEUIL.     Not  as  pretty  as  you. 

CLAUDINE.  Don't  say  that:  in  a  few  weeks  you'll  think 
her  the  prettiest  of  women.  By  the  way,  you  must  have  a 
photograph  of  her  with  you? 

VKTHEUIL.     I  haven't. 

CLAUDINE.  Then  show  it  to  me.  [He  shows  her  the 
photograph.]  You  are  right,  she's  not  pretty,  but  she  looks 
energetic  and  sweet.  You  see,  dear,  I  don't  feel  at  all 
jealous,  looking  at  this  picture,  and  if  ever  I  meet  the 
original,  I  shall  kiss  her  with  all  my  heart. 

VETHEUIL.     How  good  you  are ! 

CLAUDINE.  Life  is  funny;  when  I  think  how  for  months 
I  never  did  anything  but  cry  and  think  about  you !  .  .  . 
And  now  there  you  are  telling  me  you  are  going  to  marry, 
and  I  have  perfect  control  of  myself,  and  am  even  glad 
to  hear  the  news !  .  .  . 

VETHEUIL.     What  an  adorable  woman  you  are ! 

CLAUDINE.     Of  course!     But  then,  I'm  cured,  you  see! 

VETHEUIL.     Yes,  and  all  that  had  to  be.  .  .  . 


40  MAURICE  DONNAY 

CLAUDINE.  It  was  a  real  duty,  and  that's  a  great  con- 
solation— the  only  consolation,  I  think.  [A  pause.]  Well, 
I  too  am  going  to  get  married. 

VETHEUIL.     Really? 

CLAUDINE.  Yes:  a  great  many  things  have  happened 
since  you  have  been  away. 

VETHEUIL.     I  can  well  imagine. 

CLAUDINE.  The  Comtesse  de  Ruyseux  ran  away  with 
an  officer  a  few  weeks  ago. 

VETHEUIL.     No? 

CLAUDINE.  Yes !  Now  Ruyseux  considers  himself  free. 
.  .  .  We're  going  to  live  in  the  country,  on  our  estate,  far 
from  the  city;  we'll  come  to  Paris  only  when  Denise  is 
eighteen. 

VETHEUIL.  Well,  then,  it's  a  pretty  play:  ends  with 
two  marriages. 

CLAUDINE.     Yes,  but  shall  we  be  happy? 

VKTHEUIL.  That's  another  story.  ...  If  we  remained 
here  in  this  city  of  trouble  and  suggestiveness,  we  who 
are  the  playthings  of  passion,  we  should  be  again  tempted 
to  have  an  adventure  before  the  flame  flickered  for  the  last 
time.  Towards  forty,  you  would  fall  in  love  with  a  youth 
who  would  cause  you  great  suffering,  and  break  your  heart 
for  the  last  time 

CLAUDINE.     Don't  say  that! 

VETHEUIL.  And  I  toward  fifty,  might  fall  in  love  with 
some  child  who  would  lead  me  a  merry  chase,  and  take  me 
to  new  lands  again ! 

CLAUDINE.     We  have  seen  enough ! 

VETHEUIL.  Yes,  and  when  one  has  lived,  and  observed, 
one  arrives  at  a  true  philosophy  of  life,  and  says  that  at 
bottom  of  all  this,  happiness,  or  at  least  what  most  nearly 
approaches  it,  is  always 

[At  this  moment,  interrupting  VETHEUIL  in  the  midst 
of  his  sentence,  a  Farandole,  danced  madly  by  a  number 
of  couples,  rushes  into  the  little  salon,  and  in  its  whirlwind 
wake,  sweeps  out  VETHEUIL  and  CLAUDINE.] 

This  cold  and  summary  account  of  Amants  gives  little 
enough  of  the  spirit  of  the  French,  and  the  attempt  but 


MAURICE  DONNAY  41 

proves  the  extreme  difficulty  of  conveying  an  adequate 
idea  of  its  charm  and  grace.  Its  style  and  subject  are  so 
foreign  to  us  that  it  is  doubtful  whether  a  translation, 
however  well  done,  could  reproduce  the  essentially  French 
flavor  of  the  original. 

Conjugal  infidelity,  however  jestingly  touched  upon  in 
this  and  other  Donnay  plays,  is  not  of  prime  interest  in 
itself;  it  is  merely  an  excuse,  an  incident  round  which 
the  poet  weaves  his  delicate  web  of  sentiment  and  char- 
acter analysis.  In  his  Dedication  to  Moliere  (in  Le 
Menage  de  Moliere)  he  says:  "  Reassure  yourself,  Mon- 
sieur, we  of  to-day  are  far  from  the  old  French  conteurs, 
and  their  jokes  on  infidelity,  which  you  yourself  have  often 
revived  with  so  much  esprit,  or  else  complacently  repeated. 
The  conjugal  accident  no  longer  diverts  us:  it  appears  to 
us  as  a  social  necessity,  yes,  a  shameful  but  logical  conse- 
quence of  marriage  as  it  is  most  frequently  practised  in 
the  society  of  our  day."  This  attitude  toward  adultery  as 
a  "  social  necessity  "  is  most  typical  of  Donnay;  his  state- 
ment throws  a  great  deal  of  light  on  his  work.  Marriage, 
fidelity,  love,  are  his  subjects,  and  the  greatest  of  these 
is  love.  That  is  why,  among  other  things,  Lovers  contains, 
as  I  have  said,  his  philosophy  par  excellence. 

Maurice  Donnay  was  born  in  1859  at  Paris,  of  a  well- 
to-do  bourgeois  family  in  the  district  of  Montmartre,  where 
the  young  Maurice  was  destined  to  make  his  artistic 
debut  not  many  years  later.  His  predilection  for  literature 
was  noted  in  his  early  school  days,  for  his  instructors  at  the 
JLycee  Louis-le-Grand  and  the  Ecole  Centrale  made  refer- 
ence more  than  once  in  their  reports  to  the  "  dreamy  and 
contemplative  "  nature  of  the  youth,  which  had  many  times 
marked  him  out  as  a  "  poet  "  among  his  schoolfellows.  In 
accordance  with  the  wishes  of  his  ambitious  parents,  he 
prepared  himself  for  the  profession  of  civil  engineer,  and 


42  MAURICE  DONNAY 

in  1885  he  entered,  somewhat  unwillingly,  a  contractor's 
office.  He  was  plainly  not  destined  for  the  career  which 
he  had  embraced;  and  six  years  later,  after  having  become 
a  regular  contributor  to  the  Chat  Noir  magazine,  and  as 
a  direct  result  of  his  appearing  in  public  and  reciting  his 
own  verses  in  a  cabaret  on  Montmartre,  he  was  forced  to 
resign  his  position.  Between  the  years  1889  and  1891 
he  wrote  and  recited  a  number  of  graceful  if  occasionally 
vulgar  and  cynical  "  Saynetes,"  which  were  keenly  appre- 
ciated by  the  habitues  of  the  Chat  Noir.  In  1892  his  first 
play,  Lysistrata,  was  produced  at  the  Grand  Theatre;  it 
was  at  once  successful,  and  attracted  some  notice.  The 
story  and  the  wit  of  the  Aristophanic  comedy  appealed  to 
the  somewhat  kindred  spirit  of  the  Frenchman,  who  utilized, 
however,  only  the  principal  outlines  of  the  Greek  play,  and 
rounded  it  out  with  a  generous  infusion  of  his  own  Gallic 
wit.  The  next  important  play  was  his  most  successful 
and  is  certainly  his  most  brilliant,  and  will  doubtless  re- 
main his  finest  achievement,  Lovers.  Jules  Lemaitre,  a 
great  authority,  a  keen  and  conservative  critic,  pronounced 
this  play  "  probably  a  masterpiece."  He  was  speaking  of 
the  piece  in  its  relation  to  French  dramatic  literature,  not 
merely  contemporaneous  writing.  The  praise  of  critics  and 
public  soon  lifted  the  young  dramatist  into  the  front  rank, 
made  way  for  further  successes,  and  prepared  a  respectful 
hearing  for  everything  he  was  destined  to  write. 

La  Douloureuse  (1897) — an  untranslatable  expression 
of  argot, — again  delves  into  the  eternal  question.  This 
time  it  is  a  woman's  play.  Again  the  dramatist  tells 
us  of  the  effect  of  passion  on  a  human  character,  and 
the  treatment  here,  considered  with  that  in  Amants,  should 
give  us  a  clear  idea  of  Donnay's  mind.  "  The  principal 
underlying  idea  in  Donnay's  plays,"  says  Roger  Le  Brun, 
the  author  of  a  little  monograph  on  the  dramatist,  "  is,  in 


MAURICE  DONNAY  43 

its  essence,  this:  that  love,  as  a  result  of  social  conventions, 
for  the  most  part  hypocritically  disguised  by  a  puerile 
sentimentality,  is  forced  to  do  service  for  the  basest  appe- 
tites as  well  as  the  most  artificial  emotions;  it  is  debased 
by  lies,  by  tricks,  by  the  avarice  of  Man,  sidetracked  from 
its  true  and  proper  functions,  going  hand  in  hand  with  all 
our  misdeeds  like  a  monstrous  and  vile  thing."  This  de- 
basement "  by  lies  "  is  the  theme  of  La  Douloureuse.  Don- 
nay  harks  back  a  moment  to  Ibsen,  when  he  shows  us  the 
unhappy  result  of  a  lie  in  the  past.  The  story  of  this 
play  is  in  itself  of  little  importance:  it  is  not  well  con- 
structed or  highly  interesting,  though  the  theme  is  sig- 
nificant. But  the  dramatist  has  written  one  superb  act, 
the  second.  The  closing  scene  leaves  one  with  much  the 
same  feeling  as  that  of  the  fourth  act  of  Amants;  that 
same  longing,  somewhat  sentimental,  that  regret  for  hap- 
piness lost,  but  happiness  to  be  regained,  hangs  heavy  over 
this  pair  of  lovers  who  are  parting.  He  says,  "  Don't  you 
too  feel  a  great  weight  lifted ;  aren't  you  even  happy  ?  " 
And  she  replies,  "  Oh,  yes,  but  I'm  going  to  cry,  all  the 
same."  And  the  curtain  drops. 

L'Affranchie  (1898)  treats  the  question  of  free  love, — 
not  very  successfully,  it  is  true;  but  it  is  again  the  char- 
acterization and  the  poetic  atmosphere  which  place  this 
work  among  the  best  of  its  author. 

Georgette  Lemeunier  (1898),  played  by  Rejane  and 
Guitry,  is  the  story  of  man  and  wife,  the  "  victory  of  the 
wife  over  the  caprices  of  the  husband — a  loyal  victory, 
without  the  eternal  ancient  ruses  common  to  womankind." 

Le  Torrent  (1899)  marks  a  radical  departure  in  the 
"  theatre "  of  Donnay.  This  comes  as  near  being  a 
"thesis"  play  as  any  the  author  ever  wrote:  its  theme 
is  closely  akin  to  that  of  several  plays  of  Hervieu  and 
Brieux.  "  The  suicide  of  Valentine  Lambert — an  unfaith- 


44  MAURICE  DONNAY 

ful  husband,  relieves  him  of  the  cowardly  blame  of  his 
family  for  the  crime  of  forcing  motherhood  on  a  woman, 
and  constitutes  a  fearful  condemnation  of  the  terrible  mar- 
riage law  by  which  the  male  can  take  advantage  of  the 
most  despotic  means,  and  force  his  wife,  by  the  exigencies 
of  nature,  to  suffer  the  degrading  lie  of  adultery." 

The  essential  unit}7  of  Donnay's  art  cannot  but  suffer 
by  combining  with  it  the  alloy  of  a  collaborator,  no  mat- 
ter how  skilful  or  powerful  that  collaborator  may  be.  Don- 
nay  twice  collaborated  with  Lucien  Descaves,  and  the 
resulting  plays — La  Clairiere  and  Oiseaux  de  Passage — we 
cannot  but  feel,  fall  into  a  class  much  below  Amants  and 
La  Douleureuse.  The  first  of  these  is  another  thesis  play, 
the  other  a  Feminist  tract,  one  in  which  the  thesis  is  of 
more  importance  than  the  play  itself.  If  Donnay  sur- 
vives, he  will  be  known  as  the  author  of  two  or  three 
charming  and  clever  comedies  of  love,  not  as  the  champion 
of  "  self-realization  "  or  woman's  rights.  The  day  of  the 
thesis  play  seems  to  have  passed,  and  the  works  of  the 
present  age  must  stand  or  fall  according  to  art  standards, 
not  social  or  political.  Donnay  was  evidently  led  to  write 
these  plays,  together  with  L'Autre  Danger  (1903),  by  the 
spirit  which  pervaded  the  air ;  but  he  must  soon  have  learned 
that  he  might  well  have  left  the  work  of  reform  to  those 
who  were  better  fitted  to  polemics,  and  allowed  Brieux 
to  write  La  Femme  seule,  an  infinitely  finer  social  docu- 
ment than  any  Donnay  attempted  to  produce.  Yet 
L'Autre,  Danger,  by  reason  of  its  manifestly  interesting 
theme  and  masterly  development  of  the  serious  side  of 
human  character,  must  ever  remain  one  of  the  author's  finest 
achievements.  L'Autre  Danger  is  clearly  a  thesis  play, 
and  the  thesis  constitutes  anything  but  a  "  pleasant "  sub- 
ject. A  woman  who  gives  her  daughter  to  her  own  lover 
for  a  husband — that  is  not  a  pretty  situation;  but  handled 


MAURICE  DONNAY  45 

by  Donnay  it  becomes  a  terrible  and  a  painful  one,  and  the 
terror  and  pity  are  made  the  more  poignant  as  the  drama- 
tist has  hesitated  so  long  to  attack  the  subject.  During 
more  than  two  acts — up  to  the  middle  of  the  third — the 
theme,  or  at  least  its  direct  application,  does  not  become 
evident.  It  seems  that  the  author,  realizing  the  odiousness 
of  the  situation,  occupied  as  much  time  as  possible  in  pre- 
paring for  the  disagreeable  but  highly  dramatic  climax — 
and  this  climax,  when  it  comes,  is  the  more  effective  as 
it  is  unexpected,  or  rather  not  lengthily  and  laboriously 
prepared  for.  But  once  he  starts,  the  wheels  of  action 
move  at  lightning  speed,  and  hardly  are  we  aware  of  what 
is  happening,  until  it  becomes  a  thing  of  the  past.  One 
critic,  Antoine  Benoist,  thinks  that  Donnay  was  afraid  of 
his  subject  and  wished  to  be  rid  of  its  unpleasant  side  as 
soon  as  he  was  able ;  but  as  Donnay  is  above  all  a  dramatist, 
and  not  a  prude  or  a  moralist,  and  since  he  wishes  to  make 
a  striking  effect  and  pile  up  as  quickly  as  he  could  all 
his  accumulated  action,  the  retardation  of  the  story  in  the 
first  half  of  the  play  is  wholly  justifiable  on  the  grounds 
that  he  was  seeking  a  greater  tension  and  a  more  crushing 
climax.  It  was  to  such  apparent  neglect  of  form  as  this 
that  Lemaitre  made  reference  when  he  said  that  Donnay 
"  among  our  young  dramatists  is  one  of  the  few  whose 
works  are  the  closest  to  actual  life  because  of  this  very 
negligence  of  composition." 

The  plays  immediately  following  the  production  of  Le 
Torrent — the  next  work — are  not  of  paramount  importance. 
La  Bascule  (1901)  and  Education  de  Prince  (1900)  are, 
in  the  case  of  the  first,  a  further  study  of  the  relations  be- 
tween man  and  wife,  and,  in  the  second,  a  rewriting  of  a 
bright  and  satirical  series  of  dialogues. 

Le  Retour  de  Jerusalem  (1903)  is  the  most  ambitious 
and  detailed  of  the  modern  plays  of  Donnay.  In  it  he 


46  MAURICE  DONNAY 

attempted  a  problem:  Is  real  intimacy,  intellectual  and 
physical,  possible  between  members  of  two  distinct  races? 
But  the  universal  application  of  that  supposed  problem  is 
so  difficult  to  determine,  that  the  problem  per  se,  is  almost 
negligible.  We  must  assume  therefore  that  the  author  took 
a  Jewess  and  a  Gentile  merely  as  types  of  radically  dif- 
ferent races,  and  studied  them  in  and  for  themselves.  In 
a  long  preface  to  the  printed  play,  called  forth  by  many 
acrimonious  articles  and  much  discussion,  Donnay  says  that 
he  intended  to  place  before  the  public,  with  all  due  fair- 
ness, the  bred-in-the-bone  difference  between  Jew  and  Gen- 
tile. However  this  may  be,  he  has  succeeded  in  writing 
a  play  which  shows  very  clearly  the  essential  difference 
between  one  human  being  and  another.  This  is  a  love 
story,  as  well  as  a  psychological  study. 

The  production  of  Le  Retour  de  Jerusalem  in  America 
not  long  ago  with  one  of  the  cleverest  living  actresses, 
Madame  Simone,  in  the  leading  role,  showed  clearly  the 
great  gulf  between  French  and  American  theatrical  meth- 
ods. Through  scene  after  scene  the  play  proceeds  slowly, 
developing  character;  long  speech  after  long  speech  brings 
the  action  to  its  far-off  climax.  The  American  public  was 
not  willing  to  listen  to  conversation,  no  matter  how  brilliant 
or  how  interesting.  It  demanded  action.  Donnay  is  a 
dramatist,  but  he  is  likewise  a  poet  and  a  thinker;  the 
French  audience,  probably  the  best  trained  in  the  world, 
is  willing  to  listen  to  good  dialogue  for  half  an  hour,  pro- 
vided it  be  well  spoken — the  American  "  moving-picture  " 
audience  demands  movement,  not  talk. 

The  next  two  plays,  L'Escalade  and  Paraitre  (1904 
and  1906)  do  not  merit  special  mention.  The  most  inter- 
esting of  the  later  plays  is  the  only  one  in  which  the  author 
went  to  the  past  for  his  subject-matter.  For  a  number 
of  years  Donnay  had  been  devoting  a  great  deal  of  time 


MAURICE  DONNAY  47 

to  the  studv  of  Moliere,  upon  whom  he  has  contributed  a 
large  and  authoritative  volume,  and  in  1912  the  Comedie 
Francaise  produced  Le  Menage  de  Moliere.  In  this  five- 
act  verse  play — Donnay  has  not  forgotten  his  real  gift 
for  verse  since  the  early  Montmartre  days! — he  has 
rendered  charming  tribute  to  his  compatriot,  in  the  play 
itself  as  well  as  in  the  delicate  and  spirituel  Dedication: 

"  I  am  taking  the  liberty,  Monsieur,  of  writing  to  you, 
as  I  have  taken  a  greater  already,  that  of  writing  a  comedy 
on  your  household,  and  I  believe  that  in  putting  a  man 
such  as  you  upon  the  stage,  some  explanation,  if  not  ex- 
cuse, is  due  you.  ...  It  is  ever  an  extremely  hazardous 
proceeding  to  put  upon  the  stage  a  person  who  has  once 
actually  lived.  So  far  as  you  yourself  are  concerned, 
Monsieur,  if  we  know  you  thoroughly  as  an  author,  fairly 
well  as  actor  and  manager,  we  are  very  uncertain  when 
we  tread  on  the  ground  of  your  private  life. — Why  do  so, 
then,  you  may  well  ask?  ...  I  understand,  but  it  is  the 
fault  of  your  first  biographer,  J.-L.  Gallois,  sieur  de 
Grimarest.  Yes,  he  began  it:  he  recounts  anecdotes,  and 
gives  us  to  understand  that  you  did  not  get  along  so  very 
well  with  Armande ;  he  says  either  too  much  or  not  enough, 
thereby  arousing  our  curiosity,  which  has  not  yet  died 
down.  That  simple  admirer  is  therefore  the  first  author 
of  the  Menage  de  Moliere,  unless  it  be  yourself,  as  I  shall 
attempt  to  demonstrate  before  long.  .  .  .  Above  all,  Mon- 
sieur, do  not  try  to  scent  out  any  excuse  on  my  part,  any 
answer  to  my  critics.  ...  I  am  speaking  to  you,  and  to 
you  only,  as  I  owe  an  explanation  only  to  the  man  who 
is  the  principal  character  in  my  play.  ...  I  dare  to  hope 
that  you  will  discover  in  this  comedy,  Monsieur,  the  sin- 
cerest  expression  of  tenderness  for  yourself  and  the  pro- 
foundest  admiration  for  your  genius,  Just  as,  if  the  dis- 
tance between  us  were  not  so  great,  I  should  allow  myself 
to  dedicate  this  play  to  you  in  person." 

Donnay 's  latest  play,  Let  Eclairevses  (1913),  marks  no 
appreciable  departure  from  his  former  work:  it  is  a  love 


48 


MAURICE  DONNAY 


story,  touching  upon  the  question  of  Feminism  at  moments, 
but  it  is  primarily  a  drame  du  cceur.  With  the  usual  clever 
and  delightful  dialogue,  the  expected  scenes  of  sentiment, 
the  poet  recounts  the  history  of  an  ill-matched  couple,  end- 
ing with  the  ultimate  soul-mating  of  the  woman.  Man's 
laws,  his  obstinate  refusal  to  look  facts  in  the  face,  woman's 
revolt  and  her  final  readjustment  —  there  is  nothing  new  in 
all  this  ;  but  then  Donnay  believes  that  there  is  no  new 
material,  and  has  successfully  proved  it. 


PLAYS    PRODUCED: 

Lysistrata    1892 

Pension  de  Famille 1894  (Family  Hotel) 

Amants     1895  (Lovers) 

La  Douloureuse   1897  (The  Sad  Woman) 

L'Affranchie   1898  (The  Emancipated  Woman) 

Georgette  Lemeunier  1898 

Le  Torrent   1899  (The  Torrent) 

Education  de  Prince 1900  (A  Prince's  Education) 

La  Clairiere   (in  collaboration 

with  L.  Descaves) 1900  (The  Clearing) 

La  Bascule    1901  (The  Seesaw) 

L'Autre  Danger 1902  (The  Other  Danger) 

Le  Retour  de  Jerusalem 1903  (The  Return  from  Jerusalem) 

L'Escalade    1904  (The  Escalade) 

Oiseaux  de  Passage  (in  collab- 
oration with  L.  Descaves)  ..1904  (Birds  of  Passage) 

Paraitre    1906  (To  Appear) 

La  Patronne  1908  (The   Patroness. — Untranslat- 

Le  Manage  de  Molitre 1912         able  in  its  colloquial  use.) 

Lea  Eclaireuses   1913  (The  Women  Scouts) 

(During  the  season  of  1912-13,  Madame  Simone  appeared  in  the 
United  States  in  Mr.  Owen  Johnson's  adaptation  of  The  Return 
from  Jerusalem.) 


GENERAL   BIBLIOGRAPHY 

The  following  collections  of  criticisms  contain  accounts 
of  practically  all  the  works  of  the  writers  represented  in 
the  present  volume: 

Francisque  Sarcey,  Quarante  ans  de  thedtre  (Bibliotheque  des 

Annales). 

Jules  Lemaitre,  Les  Impressions  de  thedtre  (Lecene  et  Oudin). 
Emile    Faguet,  Propos    de    theatre    (Soci£t6    fran9aise   d'im- 

primerie  et  de  librairie). 

Catulle  Mendes,  L'Art  au  thedtre  (Fasquelle). 
Emile  Stoullig  et  Edouard  Noel,  Les  Annales  du  thedtre  et 

de  la  musique  (Ollendorff). 
Leon  Blum,  Au  theatre  (Ollendorff). 
Adolphe  Brisson,  Le  thedtre  (Bibliotheque  des  Annales). 
"         Portraits  intimes  (Colin). 

Books  of  essays  containing  material  on  one  or  more  of 
the  dramatists  here  represented: 

Georges     Pelissier,     Etudes     de     litterature     contemporaine 

(Perrin). 
Ren6  Doumic,  Les  Jeunes  (Perrin). 

"        Essais  sur  le  thedtre  contemporain  (Perrin). 
"         De  Scribe  a  Ibsen  (Perrin). 
"        Le  Theatre  nouveau  (Perrin). 
Emile  de  St.  Auban,  L'Idee  sociale  au  theatre  (Stock). 
Francois  Veuillot,  Les  Predicateurs  de  la  scene  (Retaux). 
A.  E.  Sorel,  Essais  de  psychologie  dramatique  (Sansot). 
Antoine  Benoist,  Le  Theatre  d'aujourd'hui  (Societe  francaise 

d'imprimerie  et  de  librairie). 

Paul  Flat,  Figures  du  thedtre  contemporain  (Sansot). 
Barrett  H.  Clark,  The  Continental  Drama  of  To-day  (Holt). 
The    French    Free    Theater    (Stewart    and 
Kidd). — Material  on  Lavedan. 

Single  brochures  on  individual  dramatists: 

Roger  Le  Brun,  Maurice  Donnay  (Sansot). 
E.  Sansot-Orland,  Jules  LemaUre  (Sansot). 
Victor  Magdeleine,  Jules  LemaUre  (Me>icant). 

Magazine  articles : 

The  Drama,  August,  1913. 

49 


THE  PRINCE  D'AUREC 

A  Comedy  in  Three  Acts 

By 
HENRI  LAVEDAN 

Translated  by 
BARRETT  H.  CLARK 

Presented  for  the  first  time  at  Paris,  in  the 
Theatre  du  Vaudeville,  June  1,  1892 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED 

THE  PRINCE  D'AUREC 

BARON  DE  HORN 

VISCOUNT  DE  MONTREJEAU 

PAUL  MONTADE 

MARQUIS  DE  CHAMBERSAC 

SORBIER 

THE  COUNT  DE  GANC.AY 

BARON  DE  BERTAMONT 

MARQUIS  DE  FRAYSIERES 

BERTIN 

DUTAILLIS 

STULBACH 

Louis 

JOSEPH 

A  SERVANT 

THE  PRINCESS  D'AUREC 
DUCHESS  DE  TALAIS 
COUNTESS  DE  GANCAY 
BARONESS  DE  BERTAMONT 
VISCOUNTESS  DE  SAINTE-PATRICE 
MADEMOISELLE  DE  SAINTE-PATRICE 
MADAME  DE  SERQUIGNY 
MADEMOISELLE  DE  SERQUIGNY 

The  scene  is  laid  in  Paris  at  the  present  day. 


THE  PRINCE  D'AUREC 

ACT  I. 

[In  the  hotel  of  the  PRINCE  D'AUREC. — A  large  drawing- 
room  in  an  old  mansion,  in  the  Faubourg  Saint- 
Germain.  The  furniture  is  in  the  style  of  Louis  XIV. 
To  the  right,  above  the  fireplace,  is  a  magnificent  por- 
trait of  Louis  X.IV.  The  doors  are  composed  of  a 
number  of  mirrors,  divided  into  panels;  there  are  three 
at  the  back,  one  to  the  right,  one  to  the  left.  Down- 
stage to  the  right  there  is  a  sofa  placed  at  an  angle, 
its  back  to  the  audience;  at  the  back  also  to  the  right 
is  a  sofa  by  the  side  of  a  small  table;  a  desk  and  a  chair. 
As  the  curtain  rises  two  servants  in  livery  with 
knee-breeches,  together  with  M.  STULBACH,  are  dis- 
covered.] 

STULBACH.  [To  the  servants,  angrily.]  I'm  not  going! 
Go  and  tell  M.  Bertin,  your  steward,  that  I've  been  wait- 
ing here  for  an  hour,  I,  Monsieur  Stulbach  the  coachmaker ! 

JOSEPH.     But  I  tell  you  M.  Bertin  cannot  possibly  see 


you 


Louis.     He  is  conferring  with  the  decorators. 

STULBACH.     He  will  see  me ;  do  as  I  tell  you. 

JOSEPH.  [To  Louis.]  Monsieur  is  excited;  go  to  M. 
Bertin  and  let  us  have  peace. 

Louis.  [To  STULBACH.]  One  moment!  [Louis  goes 
out.] 

STULBACH.  [Walking  back  and  forth.]  What  a  house! 
I've  had  enough  of  trifling  here  this  last  year  from  the 
Prince  and  his  household ! 

53 


54  HENRI  LAVEDAN 

JOSEPH.  [Trying  to  soothe  him.]  Come,  come,  no  per- 
sonalities !  That's  not  our  affair !  We're  not  to  blame ! 

STULBACH.     I  want  what's  owing  to  me! 

JOSEPH.  Of  course;  but  you're  not  at  all  reasonable. 
You  know  very  well  that  to-day  is  no  time  to  ask  for  your 
money:  we  have  a  fancy-dress  ball  this  evening,  and  we 
have  no  time  to  think  of  anything  else. 

STULBACH.     What's  that  to  me? 

JOSEPH.  Fifteen  hundred  invitations !  The  Queen  of 
Sardinia  is  coming! 

STULBACH.     She  owes  me  for  two  landaus. 

JOSEPH.  In  that  case,  you  had  better  make  a  fuss  with 
her.  That  would  be  wiser. 

STULBACH.     Don't  worry,  I'm  going  there  too. 

[Enter  Louis. 

Louis.  M.  Bertin  regrets,  but  he  is  busy  looking  after 
the  placing  of  the  throne. 

STULBACH.     What  throne? 

Louis.     For  the  Queen  of  Sardinia. 

JOSEPH.     What  did  I  tell  you? 

Louis.     He  is  quite  unable  to  see  you. 

STULBACH.     Then  I  must  see  the  Prince ! 

Louis.  The  Prince  is  not  at  home;  he  is  driving  the 
"  Eclair,"  the  coach  from  Robinson.1 

STULBACH.     I'll  wait  for  him. 

JOSEPH.  No,  no;  come  back  next  week.  That  will  be 
much  wiser,  I  assure  you. 

STULBACH.  Yes — yes — well,  you  may  tell  the  Prince  I 
am  going  to  file  suit! 

Louis.     Very  well:  file! 

JOSEPH.     It  would  not  be  the  first  time. 

[STULBACH  goes  out. 

JOSEPH.  [In  an  undertone,  to  Louis.]  This  old  house 
doesn't  seem  very  secure! 

*A  fashionable  restaurant  near  Paris. 


THE  PRINCE  D'AUREC  55 

Louis.     Yes  !    The  Prince  owes  everybody. 

JOSEPH.  And  the  Princess  too;  I  know  the  dressmakers 
are  continually  dunning  her.  I  know! 

Louis.  Well,  why  should  they  economize?  They  have 
no  children ! 

JOSEPH.  That  makes  no  difference:  little  parties  like 
this  to-night  must  cost  a  neat  sum ! 

Louis.     But  if  he  doesn't  pay ? 

JOSEPH.  The  Prince  gambles,  every  night;  the  stakes 
are  getting  higher  and  higher! 

Louis.     What  luck? 

JOSEPH.     Vile ! 

Louis.  How  can  he  manage  to  get  along,  the  way  he 
throws  his  money  away? 

JOSEPH.      [With  meaning,]      Friends 

Louis.     M.  Paul  Montade? 

JOSEPH.  No,  he's  a  writer — a  man  of  letters,  they  call 
him.  Those  people  never  have  a  sou.  I'm  speaking  of 
some  one  else:  that  millionaire  Jew. 

Louis.  The  Baron  de  Horn,  who's  always  around 
Madame  ? 

JOSEPH.     He  must  be  supplying  the  necessary. 

Louis.     A  Jew?     You're  joking! 

[Enter  BERTIN,  with  some  papers  in  his  hand. 

BERTIN.     Has  Stulbach  gone? 

JOSEPH.  Just  this  moment.  He  said  he  was  going  to 
file  suit. 

BERTIN.  Let  him!  I  have  a  handful  of  summonses; 
this  ball  sends  them  in  in  droves:  bootmaker,  tailor,  jeweler, 
florist —  [To  the  servants.]  Have  you  been  to  Beiloir's? 

Louis.     Yes. 

BERTIN.  Good. — The  Prince  will  be  back  any  minute. 
Go  away,  you  shouldn't  be  here — and  don't  let  any  one  in 
— no  creditors!  [The  servants  go  out.  BERTIN  looks  over 


56  HENRI  LAVED  AN 

the  papers  which  he  carries.]  A  Duke  de  Talais,  Prince 
d'Aurec!  I  really  don't  know  where  to  hide  my  head! 
Well,  I  shall  be  obliged  to  let  his  mother  know  about  it. 
[Louis  reappears  on  the  threshold.]  What  do  you  want 
now? 

Louis.     M.  Dutaillis,  reporter  from  "  L'Instantane."  x 
BERTIN.     Tell  him  to  come  in.     [Louis  goes  out.    Enter 
DUTAILHS.] 

DUTAILLIS.  How  are  you,  M.  Bertin?  I  am  in  a  great 
hurry ! 

BERTIN.  Not  so  great  as  I.  Have  you  come  to  see  the 
Prince  ? 

DUTAILLIS.  No:  his  wife.  But  why  do  you  say  the 
Prince?  Shouldn't  he  be  called  the  Duke  de  Talais  since 
his  father's  death? 

BERTIN.  Doubtless  he  ought,  but  has  preferred  to  keep 
his  title  of  Prince  d'Aurec.  You  know  his  motto?  "As 
I  please." 

DUTAILLIS.     He  lives  up  to  it! 

BERTIN.  One  moment,  please,  I  shall  let  the  Princess 
know  you  are  here.  [He  turns  to  go.] 

[Enter  the  PRINCESS,  not  noticing  DUTAILLIS. 
PRINCESS.     Has  my  husband  come  in  yet,  Bertin? 
BERTIN.     Not    yet,    Madame.       [Indicating    DUTAILLIS, 
whom  she  notices  for  the  first  time.]     M.  Dutaillis. 

PRINCESS.  [To  DUTAILLIS.]  From  "L'Instantane"; 
now  I  place  you !  Have  you  come  for  the  names  and  so 
forth?  Tell  me.  [BERTIN  goes  out.] 

DUTAILLIS.  You  were  good  enough  to  grant  me  permis- 
sion, Princess 

PRINCESS.     Oh,  we  are  old  acquaintances !     I  have  not 
forgotten  that  you  were  the  first  to  interview  me  on  the 
occasion  of  my  marriage,  three  years  ago. 
1  The  Snapshot. 


THE  PRINCE  D'AUREC  57 

DUTAILLIS.  I  had  the  honor  at  that  time  to  be  the  only 
reporter  on  all  the  papers  to  publish  in  extenso  your  entire 
lingerie.  I  was  then  only  a  very  obscure  young  re- 
porter  

PRINCESS.  My  trousseau  gave  you  a  start  in  the  news- 
paper world.  Now,  what  do  you  want? 

DUTAILLIS.  Your  costumes  for  this  evening's  ball,  and 
those  of  your  guests. 

PRINCESS.  The  Prince  will  appear  as  the  Constable 
d'Aurec,  I  as  Marion  Delorme. 

DUTAILLIS.     And  the  Duchess  de  Talais? 

PRINCESS.  My  mother-in-law  as  Madame  de  Maintenon. 
You  may  interview  her  if  you  like. 

DUTAILLIS.     Doesn't  she  live  with  you? 

PRINCESS.  No,  she  lives  in  the  Rue  de  Varennes;  for 
further  details,  you  may  see  Bertin.  When  may  I  have 
the  proofs  of  your  article? 

DUTAILLIS.     After  dinner. 

PRINCESS.  Very  well. — Oh,  I  should  like  to  have  two 
places  at  the  trial  to-morrow. 

DUTAILLIS.     You  shall  have  the  tickets  in  an  hour. 

PRINCESS.     May  I  leave  before  the  court  adjourns? 

DUTAILLIS.     Of  course. 

PRINCESS.  You  see  I  am  going  to  hear  Father  Bonaven- 
ture  at  the  chapel  of  the  Gesu  at  four  o'clock. — Next  Thurs- 
day I  am  giving  a  little  intimate  dinner  for  twenty-two; 
I'll  send  you  the  names;  say  something  nice  about  my 
dressmaker. 

DUTAILLIS.     Who  is  she? 

PRINCESS.     Monsieur  Camille. 

DUTAILLIS.  I'll  run  along  now,  I'm  very  busy.  I  have 
to  go  to  the  Papal  Embassy,  Tattersall's,  the  Bureau 
Monarchique,  and  the  Morgue,  all  before  dinner! 

PRINCESS.     Good  luck  to  you! 


58  HENRI  LAVE  DAN 

[DUTAILLIS  goes  out,  as  BERTIN  and  the  PRINCE  come 
in,  through  the  same  door.] 

PRINCE.  [To  BERTIN,  who  hands  him  a  packet  of  pa- 
pers.] No,  no!  Once  more  I  tell  you  to  leave  me,  and 
don't  speak  of  that  again ! 

BERTIN.  But,  Prince,  this  is  the  third  time  that  M. 
Stulbach 

PRINCE.  M.  Stulbach  bores  me,  and  so  do  you.  Leave 
me  now !  I  am  in  no  mood  to  think  about  my  tradespeople 
to-day!  Go!  [BERTIN  goes  out.]  Upon  my  word,  we 
shall  soon  not  be  able  to  be  at  peace  in  our  own  house! 
[To  his  wife.]  Good  morning! 

PRINCESS.  What  is  the  matter?  Have  you  been  to 
Robinson  ? 

PRINCE.  Yes,  I  am  just  off  the  box.  I'm  very  much 
troubled. 

PRINCESS.     Did  you  run  into  anything? 

PRINCE.  Whom  do  you  take  me  for?  No,  it's 
another  matter.  Whom  were  you  with  when  I  just  came 
in? 

PRINCESS.     A  young  reporter,  from  "  L'Instantane." 

PRINCE.     Did  he  ask  you  anything  about  me? 

PRINCESS.     No. 

PRINCE.  Did  he  say  anything  about  last  night,  at  the 
club? 

PRINCESS.  Nothing.  [Looking  straight  at  the  PRINCE.] 
I  can  guess:  you've  lost  again? 

PRINCE.     A  little. 

PRINCESS.     How  much? 

PRINCE.     Four  hundred. 

PRINCESS.     Thousand? 

PRINCE.     Of  course!     Not  four  hundred  francs! 

PRINCESS.     My  congratulations,  dear! 

PRINCE.     Don't  mention  it! 


THE  PRINCE  D'AUREC  59 

PRINCESS.  Well,  I  think  you  might  have  chosen  a  bet- 
ter time  to  lose  so  much ! 

PRINCE.     Why? 

PRINCESS.  Because  I  myself  am  very  short  for  the  time 
being,  and  I  was  just  about  to  ask  you  for  a  rather  large 
sum. 

PRINCE.     Ah,  this  is  just  the  day! 

PRINCESS.     I  suppose  my  demand  is  very  mal  a  propos! 

PRINCE.  It  is;  I  am  sorry.  Now  you  understand  how 
impossible  it  is  for  me  to  help  you. — What's  the  trouble? 
Dressmakers?  They  can  wait. 

PRINCESS.  Never  mind,  let's  not  speak  about  it.  Tell 
me,  who  won  all  that  from  you? 

PRINCE.     The  Prince  of  Suabia. 

PRINCESS.  It  is  a  very  expensive  luxury  to  play  with 
a  Crown  Prince ! 

PRINCE.  Twenty  thousand  louis !  It  is  a  good  deal. 
So  you  are  not  surprised  to  see  me  a  little  nervous  ? 

PRINCESS.  Nervous?  You  seem  to  me  astonishingly 
calm. 

PRINCE.  I  drove  my  coach  as  usual  this  morning,  for 
after  all — noblesse  oblige!  It  was  rather  pleasant,  the 
horses  were  well  in  hand;  no  sun,  no  dust:  perfect  English 
weather !  Only,  I'm  rather  tired  from  loss  of  sleep — and 
the  ball  this  evening  seems  rather  too  much. 

PRINCESS.     At  least  you'll  not  play  to-night. 

PRINCE.  No,  worse  luck.  I  might  have  recouped  my- 
self. 

PRINCESS.  At  this  rate,  you  will  ruin  us  altogether! 
Then  how  will  you  live?  Will  you  be  a  coachman,  or  give 
lessons  on  the  horn? 

PRINCE.  That  might  pay  me  better  than  being  a  Bache- 
lor of  Science,  like  my  steward  Bertin. 

PRINCESS.     Let  us  count  up  your  dead;  in  three  years, 


60  HENRI  LAVEDAN 

since  our  marriage,  you  have  already  consumed  two 
uncles 

PRINCE.     My  grandfather,  my  aunt,  the  Canoness, 

PRINCESS.     And  one  alive:  me! 

PRINCE.     That's  true. 

PRINCESS.  But  I  sha'n't  blame  you  for  squandering  my 
dowry;  I  despise  money. 

PRINCE.     So  do  I! 

PRINCESS.  But  really  it  is  high  time  you  stopped,  be- 
cause I  know  some  one  who  will  make  you  if  you  don't. 

PRINCE.     Who? 

PRINCESS.     Your  mother. 

PRINCE.  Oh,  the  poor  Duchess !  She  will  give  me  what- 
ever I  want. 

PRINCESS.     Do  you  believe  that? 

PRINCE.     She's  already  let  me  have  quite  a  fortune ! 

PRINCESS.  Do  you  intend  to  turn  to  her  for  the  four 
hundred  thousand? 

PRINCE.     I  do:  to-morrow. 

PRINCESS.     And  do  you  think  she  will  give  them  to  you  ? 

PRINCE.     I  do:  she  adores  me. 

PRINCESS.     That  is  no  valid  reason. 

PRINCE.  You  fail  to  do  justice  to  my  mother;  you  mis- 
judge her. 

PRINCESS.  [Ironically.]  Heaven  keep  me  from  that! 
[She  laughs.] 

PRINCE.  I  know  what  you  think  about  her:  she  lacks 
distinction. 

PRINCESS.     You  agree  to  that? 

PRINCE.  Well — she  is  not  of  our  class.  It  is  all  very 
well  for  her  to  believe  that  her  blood  is  as  good  as  yours 
or  mine  simply  because  my  father  made  her  a  duchess. 
She  is  a  Piedoux,  my  dear,  daughter  of  the  famous  manu- 
facturer of  automatic  churns,  Aristide  Piedoux 


THE  PRINCE  D'AUREC  6l 

PRINCESS.  "  Will  not  rust.  Vastly  superior  to  the 
American  machines.  First  prize  at  the  Philadelphia  Ex- 
position," according  to  the  prospectus. 

PRINCE.  Ah,  yes,  yes,  but  what  a  splendid,  whole- 
hearted woman  she  is!  I  pity  the  person  who  speaks  evil 
of  me  in  her  presence — of  me,  her  prince!  Why,  not  a 
day  passes  that  I  don't  joke  with  her  about  her  romantic 
ideas,  her  old-fashioned  notions;  of  course,  she  tries  to 
defend  herself,  but  she  only  thinks  better  of  me  for  it, 
and  when  she  uses  her  favorite  little  phrase,  "  Dominique, 
what  a  paradoxical  soul  you  are !  "  she  is  really  very  proud 
of  me.  I  know  her  as  well  as  if  I  had  brought  her  into 
the  world.  Every  time  she  is  angry  or  excited,  it  is  I 
who  finally  bring  her  around.  She  is  obstinate,  determined, 
prejudiced,  but  she  simply  cannot  resist  me! 

PRINCESS.  She  managed  to  hold  her  own  with  your 
father ! 

PRINCE.  She  was  quite  right  in  preventing  her  hus- 
band from  spending  all  her  money.  She  was  a  provident 
and  far-seeing  mother.  You  see,  she  was  thinking  of  me. 
And  then,  my  father  was  not  his  son! 

PRINCESS.  Very  well,  dear;  by  all  means  go  to  the 
Duchess,  if  you  have  so  much  confidence  in  her !  Nothing 
could  please  me  better! 

PRINCE.  That's  the  only  way — the  only  good  way — out 
of  the  difficulty.  Do  you  know  of  any  other? 

PRINCESS.     Oh,  I 

PRINCE.  We  can't  get  away  from  the  fact  that  the  debt 
must  be  paid  by  this  time  to-morrow.  The  Prince  of 
Suabia  is  very  close-fisted,  and  he  allows  no  trifling  in 
gambling  matters.  What  then?  Of  course,  I  could,  if  the 
worst  comes  to  the  worst,  sell  the  sword,  the  famous  sword 
of  my  forefather  the  Constable. 

PRINCESS.      [Ironically.]     For  all  the  good  it  does  you! 


62  HENRI  LAVEDAN 

PRINCE.  Chambersac  offered  me  a  hundred  and  thirty 
thousand  francs  for  it. 

PRINCESS.     Chambersac,  the  Marquis? 

PRINCE.  Yes,  there  is  only  one.  He  wants  it  for  the 
Cowley  collection  in  London. 

PRINCESS.     The  Marquis  plies  a  fine  trade,  doesn't  he? 

PRINCE.     He  is  a  man  of  experience — and  expedients. 

PRINCESS.  He  makes  his  living  by  it.  When  did  he 
make  you  this  offer? 

PRINCE.  Last  month.  Family  heirlooms  like  that  are 
not  picked  up  in  the  streets  every  day !  But  what  good 
would  it  do  me  to  sell  it?  That  wouldn't  solve  the  diffi- 
culty !  It  would  be  hardly  worth  our  while. 

PRINCESS.  And  your  mother  would  go  into  hysterics  if 
she  heard  of  such  a  thing. 

PRINCE.  She  would  not  hear  of  it.  Then  there  is 
De  Horn 

PRINCESS.  [Hiding  with  difficulty  the  slightest  shade 
of  nervousness.]  The  Baron? 

PRINCE.  Yes,  I  once  had  an  idea  of  turning  to  him,  but 
I  thought  it  over.  Now  I  have  nothing  against  Jews, 
but 

PRINCESS.  You  are  not  like  your  mother:  she  can't  bear 
them! 

PRINCE.  I  believe  them  to  be  very  clever  and  capable 
people,  who  sometimes  equal  us  Christians 

PRINCESS.     And  sometimes  surpass  us. 

PRINCE.  But  I  do  not  believe  we  should  allow  them 
to  get  the  upper  hand.  I  object  to  borrowing  from  De  Horn 
— because  he  would  be  sure  to  let  me  have  the  money,  and 
afterwards  take  advantage  of  me. 

PRINCESS.     How? 

PRINCE.  He  has  two  absurd  ideas  about  which  he  has 
sounded  me  once  or  twice  already.  Think  of  it,  he  wants 


THE  PRINCE  D'AUREC  63 

to  go  into  partnership  with  me  in  some  shooting  grounds, 
and  then — don't  laugh — he  wants  me  to  introduce  him  at 
the  club! 

PRINCESS.     He  goes  rather  far! 

PRINCE.  As  I  am  firmly  decided  not  to  do  either  of 
these  things,  no  matter  how  amiable  the  Baron  is,  I  shall 
not  put  myself  under  any  obligation  to  him. 

PRINCESS.     You  are  perfectly  right. 

PRINCE.  To  go  back  to  what  I  was  saying,  I  have 
thought  of  everything,  but  my  mother  is  the  only  prac- 
ticable solution.  She  has  paid  my  debts  three  times  already, 
and  she  will  pay  them  a  fourth. 

PRINCESS.     Very  possibly. 

PRINCE.     You'll  see ! 

[Enter  JOSEPH. 

JOSEPH.  [Announcing.]  Monsieur  le  vicomte  de  Mon- 
trej  eau. 

[JOSEPH  goes  out. 

PRINCE.  [To  his  wife.]  Your  cousin!  What  a  bore! 
Since  he  arrived,  the  day  before  yesterday,  I  haven't  had 
a  moment's  peace!  I'm  sorry  we  asked  him  to  stay  with 
us! 

PRINCESS.  We  couldn't  very  well  let  a  relative,  an  old 
friend,  stop  at  the  hotel,  could  we? 

PRINCE.     I'm  going.      [He  starts  to  leave.] 

[Enter  MONTREJEAU,  intercepting  the  PRINCE. 

MONTREJEAU.     Don't  leave.     I'm  in  trouble.     I'm  stuck! 

PRINCE.     What's  the  matter? 

MONTREJEAU.     The  Pavane.1 

PRINCE.     Well? 

MONTREJEAU.  It's  not  going  well.  I've  just  come  from 
the  rehearsal — most  depressed.  Bertamont  can't  keep  step. 

1  An  old  French  dance;  in  England  it  was  called  "  Pavan." — TR. 


64  HENRI  LAVEDAN 

The  others  do  fairly  well — that's  not  all !  They  lack — sst ! 
Fire — that's  the  trouble! 

PRINCESS.  They  were  doing  very  nicely  yesterday. 
Aren't  you  expecting  too  much  of  them? 

MONTREJEAU.  But  this  is  a  Pavane,  you  see !  They 
don't  get  into  the  spirit  of  the  Pavane !  This  is  what  we've 
decided:  they  will  all  dress  in  a  hurry,  and  then  after  din- 
ner try  it  over  once  more,  and  see  whether —  [To  the 
PRINCESS.]  Do  you  mind?  [To  the  PRINCE.]  Do  you? 

PRINCE.     Not  in  the  least.     But  where? 

PRINCESS.  Here,  in  this  room:  we've  reserved  it  for  our 
own  use. 

MONTREJEAU.  Perfect!  I'm  so  busy  with  this  Pavane! 
My  poor  dear  friends,  I've  come  expressly  for  this  party 
from  Nantes — given  up  my  usual  habits,  broken  in  upon 
the  routine  of  my  daily  life,  everything — just  for  this! 
The  moment  I  heard  you  were  giving  a  ball — whissht — tele- 
gram announcing  the  happy  news,  "  You  may  announce 
that  Pavane  will  be  organized  and  conducted  by  Viscount 
de  Montrejeau."  Now  it  must  be  a  huge  success,  it  must 
be  talked  about  later,  it  must  be  the  essence  of  all  that 
is  best  in  the  genus  Pavane — a  thing  of  beauty,  that  will 
last — ah,  life  is  hard! 

PRINCESS.     Now,  don't  go  on  like  that,  Jojo. 

MONTREJEAU.  How  can  I  help  it?  I  alwaj^s  feel  very 
deeply.  I'd  give  a  great  deal  to  be  twenty-four  hours 
older ! 

PRINCE.      [Troubled.]      So  would   I! 

MONTREJEAU.     He  understands  me:  he's  a  true  friend! 

[MONTREJEAU  rises  and  shakes  the  PRINCE  by  the 
hand.  Enter  JOSEPH.] 

JOSEPH.  [Announcing.]  The  Baron  de  Horn,  Mon- 
sieur Paul  Montade.  [JOSEPH  goes  out.] 

PRINCE.      [Rising.]      So  soon! 


THE  PRINCE  D'AUREC  65 

MONTREJEAU.  [Going  to  the  PRINCESS.]  Are  they  go- 
ing to  dine  here? 

PRINCESS.     Yes,  with  my  mother-in-law. 
MONTREJEAU.     Then  we're  late ! 
PRINCESS.     Wait  until  I  introduce  you! 

[Enter  MONTADE. 

MONTADE.     Princess ! 

[Enter  DE  HORN. 

DE  HORN.     Are  we  too  early? 

PRINCESS.  Not  in  the  least.  [Introducing.]  The 
Viscount  de  Montre j  eau,  my  cousin 

PRINCE.  Arrived  the  day  before  yesterday  from  Nantes, 
especially  to  conduct  the  Pavane  this  evening ! 

PRINCESS.  Monsieur  le  Baron  de  Horn — Monsieur  Paul 
Montade,  the  well-known  novelist. 

MONTREJEAU.  [To  DE  HORN,  whom  he  mistakes  for 
MONTADE.]  Read  you  often,  Monsieur — in  the  train.  Very 
pretty  style!  And 

DE  HORN.  [Indicating  MONTADE.]  You  are  mistaken, 
there  is  M.  Montade ! 

MONTREJEAU.  I  beg  your  pardon. — What's  the  news  on 
the  Bourse? 

DE  HORN.  [With  an  evasive  gesture.]  They  say — 
that  we  must  all  make  a  living! 

MONTREJEAU.  [Carefully.]  Yes — the  life  of  a  finan- 
cier must  be  very  enthralling — you  get  the  fever —  [DE 
HORN  nods  his  head  in  affirmation  of  MONTREJEAU'S  words, 
and  walks  off.  MONTREJEAU  then  turns  to  MONTADE,  who 
has  come  to  him.]  Oh!  Read  you  often,  Monsieur, — in 
the  train.  Very  pretty  style.  Have  you  anything  in  hand 
now? 

MONTADE.     Yes,  another  novel. 


66  HENRI  LAVEDAN 

MONTREJEAU.     What  subject? 

MONTADE.     Society. 

MONTREJEAU.  I  see.  You're  going  to — the  lash  of 
satire  ? 

MONTADE.     Oh,  no,  no  satire:  only  the  lash. 

MONTREJEAU.     Ah,  Juvenal ! 

PRINCESS.  [Aside  to  DE  HORN.]  I  was  going  to  write: 
I  have  something  to  talk  to  you  about. 

PRINCE.  [To  MONTREJEAU.]  Do  you  realize,  Mon- 
trejeau,  that  it's  past  six? 

MONTREJEAU.  [To  MONTADE  and  the  BARON.]  Beg 
pardon J  White  tie! 

DE  HORN.  [To  the  PRINCE.]  You  may  leave  us  if 
you  like:  we  are  in  delightful  company.  [He  points  to  the 
PRINCESS.] 

JOSEPH.  [At  the  door.]  The  armorer  from  the  Cluny 
Museum  has  come  to  try  on  the  cuirass  of  the  Prince. 

MONTREJEAU.  Ha !  Ha !  The  cuirass !  Tournament ! 
Charming  period ! 

PRINCE.  [Bored.]  I'll  see  him —  [JOSEPH  goes  out; 
the  PRINCE  follows  him.] 

MONTREJEAU.  [Bowing  to  everybody.]  Ta-ta!  [He 
goes  out.] 

PRINCESS.     Ta-ta,  Jojo! 

DE  HORN.  [To  the  PRINCESS.]  I  didn't  know  you  had 
a  cousin  in  the  provinces. 

MONTADE.     He  seems  very  intelligent! 

PRINCESS.  Oh,  my  cousin  is  not  a  genius,  but  when  he 
dances  he  is  very  distingue.  Now  instead  of  making 
ironical  remarks,  do  look  at  those  illustrations  for  a  mo- 
ment while  I  talk  with  the  Baron. 

MONTADE.  [Going  to  the  opposite  end  of  the  room, 
towards  a  table  heaped  with  books.]  Secrets,  in  my  pres- 
ence? [To  DE  HORN.]  My  dear  man,  I  shall  be  jealous! 


THE  PRINCE  D'AUREC  67 

PRINCESS.  That  would  be  very  wrong  of  you !  I  have 
merely  a  question  of  finance  to  ask  of  the  Baron.  I  am 
going  to  ask  him  to  buy  some  Turkish  bonds  for  me. 

MONTADE.  I  guessed  it.  [He  turns  over  the  leaves  of 
a  book.] 

PRINCESS.  [To  MONTADE.]  Do  you  wish  anything 
else? 

MONTADE.  I  only  like  the  Epinal  chromos.  [He  looks 
at  a  picture  in  one  of  the  books.]  Here's  a  pretty  one! 

DE  HORN.     What  is  it? 

MONTADE.  [Reading  the  title  on  the  page.]  The 
quarter  of  an  hour  of  Rabelais !  x 

PRINCESS.  [To  MONTADE.]  Leave  us  in  peace,  please! 
[To  DE  HORN,  confidentially.]  Now!  [She  stops.] 
No,  I  hardly  dare! 

DE   HORN.     Tell  me,  please. 

PRINCESS.  Once  more  I  must  take  advantage  of  your 
friendly  offer. 

DE  HORN.  It  is  a  standing  offer  and  will  always  remain 
such. 

PRINCESS.     I  am  very,  very  grateful  to  you. 

DE  HORN.  Let  us  leave  gratitude  out  of  the  question. 
Now  what  is  it? 

PRINCESS.  You  guess  already,  don't  you?  I  am  just  now 
very 

DE  HORN.     I  understand. 

PRINCESS.  You  must  listen  to  me;  you  must  know 
that— 

DE  HORN.  Never  mind.  [He  turns  round,  sits  by  the 
small  table,  draws  a  check-book  from  his  pocket,  takes  a 
pen,  makes  out  a  check,  gives  it  to  the  PRINCESS,  and  points 
to  a  place  on  it.]  You  have  only  to  insert  the  figure 

1  A  common  expression  relative  to  the  time  when  a  person  pays 
a  bill.  The  reference  is  to  an  incident  in  the  life  of  Rabelais. — TH. 


68  HENRI  LAVEDAN 

there:  the  check  is  signed.     [He  gives  her  the  check-book.] 

PRINCESS.  [Taking  the  check-book  and  playing  me- 
chanically with  it.]  But,  really,  I'm  too — I'm  taking 
advantage 

DE  HORN.     Very  well! 

PRINCESS.     But,  I 

DE  HORN.     Tell  me! 

PRINCESS.     What  confidence  I  have  in  you! 

DE  HORN.     It  could  not  be  better  placed! 

PRINCESS.  [Puts  the  check-book  in  her  pocket  and  rises. 
To  MONTADE.]  Montade,  I  give  you  the  Baron  again. 

MONTADE.     I  was  getting  along  very  well  without  him ! 

PRINCESS.  I'll  see  you  presently!  [She  goes  out 
quickly.] 

MONTADE.  [Approaching  the  BARON,  smiling,  as  if  to 
show  that  he  "  knew  something ".']  Well,  how  are  you 
coming  on? 

DE  HORN.     What  do  you  mean? 

MONTADE.  [Looking  toward  the  door  through  which  the 
PRINCESS  has  just  gone.]  Turkish  bonds! 

DE  HORN.     I  don't  understand. 

MONTADE.  Oh,  come  now!  Don't  try  to  hide  anything 
from  me!  I'm  not  blind! 

DE  HORN.     Monsieur  is  a  psychologist,  is  he  not? 

MONTADE.     There  are  worse  professions ! 

DE  HORN.     What  are  you  not  blind  to? 

MONTADE.     You  won't  be  angry  if  I  tell  you? 

DE  HORN.     I  am  never  angry. 

MONTADE.     So  much  the  worse. 

DE  HORN.     It's  a  matter  of  principle.     Tell  me! 

MONTADE.  You  are  getting  along  very  nicely  in  this 
family. 

DE  HORN.     Not  better  than  you. 

MONTADE.     Oh,  yes !    But,  for  that  matter,  our  cases  are 


THE  PRINCE  D'AUREC  69 

different:  I  am  a  celebrity,  I  am  invited  out  as  a  mat- 
ter of  course.  But  it  is  not  a  matter  of  course  that  a 
man  like  you — who  comes  of  an  eminently  practical  race — 
should  have  private  conversations  with  a  woman  like  the 
Princess,  and  take  out  of  his  pocket  a  little  volume  that 
resembles  a  check-book !  [Negative  gesture  from  DE 
HORN.]  There  must  be  something  behind  all  this  when 
the  Baron  de  Horn,  one  of  our  most  hard-headed  million- 
aires, a  leader,  although  young,  among  the  Hebrew  finan- 
ciers, lets  himself  in  for  such  elegant  and  refined  little 
chats  before  dinner! 

DE  HORN.     Well? 

MONTADE.  And  as  that  something  else  is  one  of  the 
most  charming  and  desirable  little  women  in  Paris,  why, 
my  dear  fellow,  I  wish  you  all  the  luck  in  the  world ! 

DE  HORN.     I  assure  you 

MONTADE.  Oh,  no,  no,  no — don't  explain !  Only,  I  don't 
know  just  why:  I  should  be  careful  about  the  Prince  and 
Princess.  [The  BARON  pays  strict  attention  to  these 
words.]  I  have  an  idea  that  this  family's  intentions  in 
regard  to  you  are  not  of  the  most  disinterested,  and  you  are 
running  the  risk  of  being  fooled  if  you  don't  play  your 
cards  with  extreme  care 

DE  HORN.     I  have  never  yet  been  fooled ! 

MONTADE.  You  and  I  are  not  what  might  be  termed 
close  friends,  but  in  the  interest  of  psychology  I  think  I 
ought  to  warn  you  of  possible  danger.  Now,  let's  say  noth- 
ing more  about  it! 

DE  HORN.  You  are  very  kind!  But  you  may  rest  as- 
sured I  shall  never  be  fooled  by  these  people,  Monsieur 
Novelist.  I  know  them  too  well  for  that! 

MONTADE.     Not  as  well  as  I.     They  don't  love  us ! 

DE  HORN.  They  despise  us ;  me  for  my  money,  you 
for  your  ability.  These  people  are  our  born  enemies;  no 


70  HENRI  LAVEDAN 

peace  is  possible  between  us.  They  tolerate  us,  but  never 
for  an  instant  do  they  admit  us  to  be  their  equals.  We  are 
a  race  apart;  the  same  blood  does  not  flow  in  our  veins. 

MONTADE.  We  are  like  higher  servants  to  them.  I  am 
happy  to  see  that  we  can  converse  on  a  basis  of  mutual 
understanding.  But  if  they  despise  us — and  they  do — 
why  do  they  receive  us  in  their  circle? 

DE  HORN.  First,  because  we  force  our  way,  but,  above 
all,  because  they  are  afraid  of  us.  They  are  afraid  of  us 
as  they  are  afraid  of  what  is  unknown,  of  the  future.  I 
inspire  fear  by  reason  of  the  millions  I  have  in  my  pocket, 
you  by  the  qualities  you  have  in  your  mind.  You  see,  the 
impudence  of  their  affected  courtesy,  the  carefully  guarded 
degree  to  which  they  extend  their  friendship,  their  atti- 
tude of  patronage,  their  formal  manner  of  shaking  hands 
— it  all  shows  that  they  can  never  pardon  us  for  obliging 
them  to  accept  us.  It  is  sometimes  said  that  their  hauteur 
is  only  a  form  of  timidity,  their  rudeness,  absent-minded- 
ness. Well,  I  shall  believe  that  when  I  have  once  seen 
them  amiably  absent-minded !  What  are  they  good  for 
nowadays?  What  do  they  care  for  art,  literature,  science? 
They  support  nothing  but  horse-racing  and  horse-shows. 
If  they  were  able  they  would  put  a  stop  to  everything. 
They  are  useless,  vain,  frivolous,  irritable:  they  form  a 
totally  artificial  and  isolated  class  in  the  society  of  to-day: 
luxurious  and  rotten  to  the  core !  They  now  quietly  decom- 
pose amid  the  splendor  and  show  of  their  past.  To-morrow 
they  will  have  ceased  to  exist! 

MONTADE.  Far  be  it  from  me  to  defend  them !  I  don't 
want  to,  nor  am  I  bound  to,  but  really,  between  you  and 
me,  you  exaggerate.  There  are  among  them,  if  you  know 
where  to  look,  people  who  still  possess  the  old-fashioned 
honor  and  fidelity. 

DE  HORN.     Very  possibly:  in  the  provinces! 


THE  PRINCE  D'AUREC  71 

MONTADE.     In  Paris,  too. 

DE  HORN.  Very  few:  they  are  rare  exceptions.  We 
are  too  prone  to  make  generalizations  from  the  exception. 
A  courtesan  may  have  fine  qualities,  but  how  many  of  those 
ladies  whom  we  have  known  were  like  Dumas's  heroine? 
And  as  for  the  gentlemen  who  have  done  something  in  the 
world;  do  they  owe  their  achievements  to  the  age  and  the 
influence  of  their  family  names  ?  No,  they  are  simply  men, 
into  whom  one  day  fell  the  divine  spark,  and  for  one  Duke 
who  was  a  brilliant  statesman  and  one  Viscount  who  was 
a  great  thinker,  consider  the  unending  line  of  titled  idiots ! 
As  a  whole,  the  aristocracy  of  to-day  is  in  the  last  stages 
of  decay.  There  is  not  a  shadow  of  a  doubt!  They  are 
nothing — they  have  nothing  left! 

MONTADE.  But  there  is  a  little  natural  pride  in  know- 
ing who  your  ancestors  were  during  the  past  six  or  seven 
hundred  years ! 

DE  HORN.     But  what  is  the  good  of  that? 

MONTADE.  They  have  the  satisfaction  of  perpetuating 
the  family  name.  They  are  seven  hundred  years  old:  that 
is  their  merit. 

DE  HORN.  Their  only  one.  But  so  are  we  seven  hun- 
dred years  old,  as  far  as  that  goes,  or  even  older!  Your 
ancestors  and  mine  might  well  have  fallen  at  Crecy.  We 
merely  have  no  means  of  telling.  The  nobility  have  those 
things  inscribed  on  a  scrap  of  paper. 

MONTADE.  That  is  everything.  It  is  a  great  satisfac- 
tion to  me,  for  instance,  to  know  that  seven  hundred  years 
ago,  my  ancestors  went  about  in  rags,  bare-footed,  scratch- 
ing the  arid  soil  of  the  Middle  Ages,  while  I,  the  descend- 
ant of  those  outcasts,  may  hold  my  head  high,  and  can 
write  my  thoughts  and  have  them  printed ! 

DE  HORN.  And  my  ancestors  seven  hundred  years  ago! 
Worse  than  outcasts!  They  lived  in  filth,  the  objects  of 


72  HENRI  LAVEDAN 

fierce  hatred;  they  were  driven  out  of  the  towns  at  the 
sword's  point  like  lepers !  A  Jewess,  who  was  enceinte 
and  had  to  cross  a  bridge,  paid  the  same  toll  as  swine.  But 
the  times  have  changed,  and  now  we  are  the  kings:  we  are 
the  true  aristocrats.  They — ha! — they  are  appropriately 
called  descendants!  As  we  rise,  they  sink!  Proofs? 
Everywhere!  There,  on  the  table!  [He  picks  up  a  book 
at  hazard.]  "  Rules  for  the  Game  of  Poker." 

MONTADE.  [Picking  up  another  book.]  "  Thirty  Calls 
on  the  Horn,"  collected  by  the  Baron  de  X.  .  .  . 

DE  HORN.  [Taking  another.]  "The  Mail-coach  in 
Paris."  And  in  this  house,  what  do  we  find?  A  Prince 
aged  thirty-four,  good  for  nothing  on  earth 

MONTADE.     Capable  of  everything 

DE  HORN.  A  perverted  mind,  heart  and  feelings  like 
dry  tobacco.  There's  the  Princess,  a  pretty  doll,  to  whom 
you  may  say  anything,  but  to  whom  I  happen  to  be  mak- 
ing love,  with  the  certitude,  I  admit,  of  her  being  mine! 
What  else?  Jo  jo,  the  cousin  from  the  provinces,  the  grand- 
son of  a  Chouan  x 

MONTADE.     Let's  say  nothing  more  about  them ! 

DE  HORN.  In  this  noble  family  the  only  one  who  is 
worth  anything  is  the  Duchess,  and  she's  a  fool.  There's 
nothing  of  a  real  Duchess  in  her,  she  was  born  a  Piedoux ! 
There's  nothing  to  them  at  all!  They  don't  even  try  to 
protect  their  caste  system.  They  are  exempted  from  public 
office,  driven  out  of  every  place  where  useful  people  are 
needed!  And  do  they  stir  a  finger  in  revolt,  even  for  the 
sake  of  form?  Have  they  even  sulked,  as  their  fathers 
did  for  fifteen  years  during  the  July  Monarchy?  No,  you 
don't  know  them !  They  paint  their  faces  and  dress  up  in 
the  costumes  of  the  past! — "What  are  you  wearing? — 

1  The  Royalists  in  the  Vendean  war  were  so-called  because 
they  imitated  the  call  of  the  "  Chouan  "—the  owl.— TB. 


THE  PRINCE  D'AUREC  73 

Who  are  you? — La  Mole!  And  you? — Coconas."  1  They 
deserve  the  famous  tirade  of  the  Marquis  de  Presle  2:  "  Do 
you  know  why ?  " 

MONTADE.  [Continuing.]  Jean-Frangois  d'Aurec  went 
to  Palestine? 

DE  HORN.     Why  the  Constable ? 

MONTADE.  Why  this  one,  and  that — and  so  forth?  It 
was  in  order  that 

DE  HORN.  This  young  lord  might  drive  the  coach  to 
Robinson,  make  free  with  his  friend's  purse,  ruin  himself, 
and  then  hold  high  his  own  head  and  his  ancestor's  sword 
at  a  fancy-dress  ball!  Ah,  I  don't  like  them! 

MONTADE.  I  understand  that.  But  why  do  you  appear 
to  enjoy  their  company,  why  do  you  come  here? 

DE  HORN.     Oh,  I  have  a  purpose. 

MONTADE.     Very  well !     Here  they  come !     Silence ! 
[Enter  the  DUCHESS,  the  PRINCESS,  and  MONTREJEAU. 

DUCHESS.  [To  MONTREJEAU.]  I  haven't  seen  you 
since  my  son's  wedding,  Monsieur  de  Montrejeau,  and  yet 
I  should  have  recognized  you  a  league  away !  My  memory 
is  good  for  faces,  places,  and  titles !  [MONTADE  and  DE 
HORN  come  and  bow  to  the  DUCHESS.]  You  know,  Mes- 
sieurs, don't  you,  that  the  Viscount  is  related  to  us  through 
his  great  aunt  Brimont-Laudun,  daughter  of  the  Laudun 
who  was  esquire  to  Madame  la  Dauphine? 

MONTADE.      [Aside.]      She's  off  again! 

DUCHESS.  [To  MONTREJEAU.]  Where  are  you  stop- 
ping? 

MONTREJEAU.     Here. 

PRINCESS.     We  gave  him  the  red  room. 


1  La   Mole   and    Coconas:   characters    in  Dumas'    "Vingt   Ans 
Apres." 

2  A  character  in   Augier   and   Sandeau's   "  Le  Gendre  de   M. 
Poirier." 


74  HENRI  LAVEDAN 

DUCHESS.  The  king's  chamber!  The  one  I  always  use 
when  I  come  to  stay  with  my  son.  Louis  XIV  once 
slept  there!  Louis  XIV  is  a  perfect  idol  of  mine.  [To 
MONTADE  and  DE  HORN.]  Yours,  too,  isn't  he? 

[MONTADE  and  DE  HORN  bow  in  affirmation. 

MONTREJEAU.  The  Great  Monarch!  Five  o'clock  with 
Moliere ! 

MONTADE.  [Pointing  to  the  large  portrait.]  There  he 
is! 

MONTREJEAU.     [Looking  at  the  picture.]     Poor  man! 

DUCHESS.     Why  poor  man? 

MONTREJEAU.  What  a  mane !  To  think  he  had  to  wear 
that  all  his  life! 

DUCHESS.    Do  you  think  it's  ridiculous? 

MONTREJEAU.     Not  at  all:  quite  the  reverse! 

DUCHESS.  Who  are  you  this  evening,  Monsieur  Mon- 
tade? 

MONTADE.  Pierrot,  Madame  la  duchesse  —  merely 
Pierrot. 

DUCHESS.  Why  don't  you  take  a  historical  costume — 
Du  Guesclin,  for  instance? 

MONTADE.  I  never  thought  of  that;  I'll  try  it  some 
other  time. 

DUCHESS.     And  you,  Baron? 

PRINCESS.  De  Horn  is  a  Rajah  this  evening,  covered 
with  diamonds.  I've  heard  you  can't  look  at  his  costume: 
it's  as  bright  as  the  sun ! 

MONTREJEAU.  [Attempting  a  joke.]  Get  out  of  my 
sunlight ! * 

DUCHESS.  They  say  the  diamonds  cost  a  million.  Is 
that  true? 

DE  HORN.     No,  Duchess:  three. 

1  Diogenes'  reply  to  Alexander  when  he  was  asked  what  favor 
he  should  like  from  the  great  general. 


THE  PRINCE  D'AUREC  75 

DUCHESS.  [Stiffly.]  My  compliments  !  There  is  not  a 
woman  of  the  aristocracy  who  can  boast  of  so  many. 

DE  HORN.  That's  true.  But  my  diamonds  are  not 
family  jewels;  they  are  like  me,  parvenus. 

DUCHESS.      [To  MONTREJEAU.]     And  you,  Montrejeau? 

MONTREJEAU.  First  I  thought  I'd  appear  as  a  Chouan, 
with  hat  and  cockade,  representing  Grandfather's  last 
heroic  days!  La  Vendee — Bocage — and  all  that! — but  I 
thought  it  might  be  too  painful !  And  those  Chouans — 
they  were  not  very — Pavane !  So,  sst !  I  changed ! 

MONTADE.     And  what  is  it  now? 

MONTREJEAU.     Duke  d'Epernon — simple  Epernon! 

DUCHESS.     Delicious ! 

MONTADE.     Fits  you  like  a  glove! 

PRINCESS.     But,  Mother,  tell  the  gentlemen 

DE  HORN.  Yes,  Duchess,  we're  very  anxious  to 
hear 

MONTREJEAU.     Oh,  very! 

DUCHESS.  It's  nothing  so  extraordinary:  my  dressmaker 
suggested  Catherine  de  Medicis. 

MONTADE.     Oh ! 

DUCHESS.  Not  nice,  was  it?  She's  so  unsympathetic! 
So  I  chose  Madame  de  Maintenon! 

DE  HORN.     Happy  choice! 

MONTREJEAU.     [Pointing  to  the  portrait.]     For  his  sake? 

DUCHESS,     Possibly ! 

[Enter  the  PRINCE,  in  evening  dress. 

PRINCE.    Whew ! 

DUCHESS.  What  is  it,  Dominique?  You  don't  look 
well? 

PRINCE.  The  armorer  nearly  killed  me  fitting  on  the 
irons. 

DUCHESS.  [Shocked.]  Irons?  The  Constable's  suit  of 
armor ! 


76  HENRI  LAVEDAN 

PRINCE.  Yes,  irons — I'm  half  dead!  Then  all  those 
people  hammering  about:  electricians  and  gardeners — ! 
The  whole  place  turned  upside-down — I  wish  the  ball  were 
over! 

DUCHESS.     I  don't. 

PRINCESS.  How  frivolous,  Mother!  If  Madame  de 
Main  tenon  heard  you ? 

DUCHESS.  So  much  the  worse  for  her!  Oh,  the  party 
is  going  to  be  magnificent! 

PRINCE.     Too  many  people ! 

DUCHESS.     Not  at  all ! 

PRINCESS.     Oh,  yes :  fifteen  hundred  invitations  ! 

PRINCE.  [To  the  DUCHESS.]  It's  your  fault!  If  we 
had  listened  to  my  mother,  we  should  have  invited  all  the 
nobility  of  the  provinces! 

MONTREJEAU.     Quite  as  good  as  that  of  Paris! 

DUCHESS.  I  should  have  had  no  objection.  We  have 
only  too  rarely  an  opportunity  to  gather  together  and  make 
friends  among  ourselves.  Thanks  to  this  ball,  we  shall 
have  all  the  aristocracy  together  at  once!  And  then,  the 
tradespeople  were  complaining  of  dull  times ! 

MONTADE.  That  is  their  business — they  always  com- 
plain. 

DUCHESS.  The  Republican  Press  criticizes  us  for  clos- 
ing our  salons  to  outsiders;  this  time  they  have  no  cause 
for  complaint! 

PRINCESS.  You're  mistaken,  the  Republican  Press  will 
always  have  something  to  say. 

PRINCE.     Well,  it  will  be  perfectly  right! 

DUCHESS.     Dominique ! 

PRINCE.  Because  we  are  playing  the  fool  in  our  little 
faubourg,  and  by  this  time  we  ought  to  uphold  the  govern- 
ment. Little  Marianne  *  is  charming,  eh  ? 

1  The  Republic  is  sometimes  jokingly  spoken  of  as  "  Marianne." 


THE  PRINCE  D'AUREC  77 

PRINCESS.     We  must  keep  up  with  the  times ! 

DUCHESS.  We — Republicans?  What  are  you  thinking 
of? 

PRINCE.     The  Pope  himself  is! 

DUCHESS.  You  forget,  my  son:  that  you  are  the  godson  of 
the  Count  de  Chambord! 

MONTREJEAU.     So  am  I! 

PRINCE.  There  are  innumerable  hordes  of  his  godsons: 
two  thousand  at  least ! 

DUCHESS.     Please,  do  not  continue ! 

PRINCE.     Very  well!     If  you  can't  take  a  joke ! 

DUCHESS.  There  are  certain  forms  of  levity  which  I 
cannot  tolerate!  [To  DE  HORN  and  MONTADE.]  Perhaps 
you  did  not  know  that  side  of  him.  He  persists  in  attack- 
ing my  most  cherished  beliefs — the  king,  the  clergy,  the 
white  flag 

PRINCE.  I  attack  nothing:  there  are  times  when  I  ven- 
erate the  king,  the  pope,  the  princes,  everything  that  is 
emblazoned,  crowned 

DE  HORN.     Uncrowned! 

PRINCE.  Likewise.  I  regret  that  Louis  XVI  was  be- 
headed. 

DUCHESS.     Regret? 

PRINCE.  And  that  lately  the  good  Jesuit  fathers  who 
educated  me  so  well,  and  made  me  what  I  am,  have  been 
removed!  But  I  see  nothing  tragic  in  it,  as  my  mother 
does. 

DUCHESS.     I  am  broad-minded :  I  don't  think  it  tragic ! 

PRINCESS.  Don't  defend  yourself:  you  are  monarchy 
personified. 

PRINCE.  You  read  nothing  but  the  Gazette  de  France; 
every  spurious  Marie- Antoinette  escritoire  you  see  you  buy ; 
you  believe  in  Louis  XVII,  and  your  favorite  flower  is  the 
fleur-de-lys! 


78  HENRI  LAVEDAN 

PRINCESS.  He's  jealous  because  he  can't  wear  one  in  his 
button-hole ! 

PRINCE.  You're  too  gullible!  And,  for  your  trouble,  I 
have  found  for  you  a  coat-of-arms :  Jupiter's  thigh  on  a 
field  of  azure,  with  the  motto,  "  It  really  happened." 

DUCHESS.     I  don't  understand. 

PRINCE.  You  think  everything  "  really  happened ! " 
The  doors  are  all  closed,  so  we  may  speak  out:  nothing 
has  happened,  my  dear  Mother!  The  Crusades — Richard 
Co2ur-de-Lion — "  Burning  fever  " — "  Open,  'tis  the  fortune 
of  France !  " — "  Hang  thyself,  brave  Crillon  " — "  There 
are  no  Pyrenees !  " — "  Messieurs  les  anglais  !  "  1  They  are 
all  a  fairy-tale,  that  never  happened.  They  are  only  catch- 
words of  the  past ! 

DUCHESS.  My  boy,  Henry  IV  and  the  Sunday 
chicken 2 

PRINCE.  Nonsense —  You  read  those  things  in  books, 
see  them  in  pictures,  hear  them  at  the  opera 

MONTREJEAU.     By  Jove ! 

DUCHESS.     I  won't  listen  to  another  word ! 

PRINCE.  People  speak  of  them  as  they  speak  of  Homer, 
Roland,  Blue-Beard,  and  Puss-in-Boots,  but  they  don't 
exist!  Some  fine  morning  we'll  all  wake  up  and  find  that 
the  glorious  history  of  France  is  only  a  dream! 


1  A  melange  of  famous  historical  allusions  and  quotations.    The 
"  burning  fever  "  is  from  an  aria  in  the  opera  "  Richard  Coeur-de- 
Lion";  "Open,  'tis  the  fortune  of  France!"  is  attributed  to  Philip 
VI  of  Valois,  after  his  defeat  at  Cr6cy  by  the  English;  "Hang 
thyself,  brave  Crillon,"  to  Henri  IV;  "There  are  no  Pyrenees"  to 
Louis  XIV  when  the  Duke  of  Anjou  was  crowned  King  of  Spain; 
"  Messieurs  les  anglais  "  was  addressed  to  the  English  at  Fontenoy, 
meaning  that  they  should  fire  the  first  shot. 

2  Henri  IV  said  that  he  wished  the  country  to  be  so  prosperous 
that  every  inhabitant  would  be  rich  enough  to  afford  a  "  poule  au 
pot" — or  boiled  chicken — every  week.     The  Prince's  reply  is  quite 
untranslatable;  his  makes  a  pun  on  the  word  "canard" — duck — 
which  also  means  an  exaggeration. 


THE  PRINCE  D'AUREC  79 

DE  HORN.     Answer  him,  Duchess! 

DUCHESS.  I  can't !  He  takes  my  breath  away !  Ah, 
Dominique,  what  a  paradoxical  soul  you  are! 

PRINCE.      [Aside,  to  his  wife.]      There!     You  hear? 

PRINCESS.     "  Hit  the  target  every  time !     Can't  miss !  " 

PRINCE.     Not  I! 

[Enter  a  servant. 

SERVANT.     Dinner  is  served ! 

[All  rise.  The  PRINCESS,  in  passing  the  small  desk  near 
which  the  BARON  is  standing,  leaves  the  check-book  on  it, 
unperceived  by  the  others.  The  BARON  takes  it.] 

PRINCESS.  [Going  close  to  her  husband.]  I  don't  think 
you  were  at  all  tactful  with  your  mother! 

PRINCE.  You'll  see,  she  will  pay  a  good  round  sum  to 
bring  me  back  into  the  fold ! 

DE  HORN.  [Opens  the  cover  of  the  check-book  before 
putting  it  into  his  pocket,  sees  the  figure  written  in  it,  raises 
his  eyebrows,  and  says  aside:]  Two  hundred  thousand! 
I  begin  to  have  hope!  [Going  to  the  DUCHESS  and  offer- 
ing her  his  arm.]  Duchess! 

[DE  HORN  and  the  DUCHESS,  together  with  the  rest  of 
the  company,  pass  out  into  the  dining-room.] 

DUCHESS.     The  day  the  king  comes  riding  into  Paris 

PRINCE.     He  will  soon  be  on  foot  again ! 

Curtain. 

ACT  II. 

[The  scene  is  the  same  as  in  the  first  act. — The  folding- 
doors  at  the  back  open  upon  a  circular  balcony  which 
permits  a  view  of  a  large  room  beyond,  brilliantly 
lighted.  On  the  balcony  are  stools,  small  chairs,  and 
various  musical  instruments:  violas,  'cellos,  bass-viols, 
etc. 


80  HENRI  LAVED  AN 

As  the  curtain  rises  the  MARQUIS  DE  CHAMBERSAC, 
the  VISCOUNT  DE  MONTREJEAU,  and  MONTADE  are 
discovered.  CHAMBERSAC  is  dressed  in  a  court  uni- 
form of  the  Second  Empire,  MONTADE  as  Pierrot,  and 
MONTREJEAU  as  the  Duke  d'Epernon.] 

MONTREJEAU.  [To  CHAMBERSAC.]  Four  hundred  thou- 
sand last  night,  you  say? 

CHAMBERSAC.     To  the  Prince  of  Suabia. 

MONTREJEAU.  Diavolo!  In  any  event,  the  Duchess 
seems  to  know  nothing  about  it:  after  dinner,  she  went 
direct  to  her  rooms. 

MONTADE.  To  metamorphose  herself  into  the  Great 
Monarch's  morganatic  spouse ! 

MONTREJEAU.     She  was  gay  as  a  lark. 

CHAMBERSAC.  You  may  be  sure  she  will  not  long  re- 
main ignorant  of  the  state  of  affairs. 

MONTREJEAU.  [Showing  uneasiness.]  And  my  dancers 
not  here  yet! 

MONTADE.  They  are  coming:  dry  your  tears!  [To 
CHAMBERSAC.]  How  does  the  Prince  carry  it  off? 

CHAMBERSAC.     Finely. 

MONTREJEAU.     He  has  plenty  of  courage. 

CHAMBERSAC.     Nerve ! 

MONTREJEAU.     Same  thing. 

CHAMBERSAC.     In  the  provinces,  not  here! 

MONTADE.  [To  CHAMBERSAC.]  Do  you  think  our 
friend  can  pay? 

CHAMBERSAC.  I  wonder?  He  has  only  one  resource: 
the  Duchess. 

MONTADE.     And  what  if  she  refuses? 

CHAMBERSAC.  Then  he'll  have  to  scrape  around,  and 
empty  his  pockets.  I  can  always  help  him  to  the  extent 
of  a  hundred  and  thirty  thousand. 


THE  PRINCE  D'AUREC  81 

MONTREJEAU.  I'm  glad  to  hear  it!  You're  a  friend 
worth  having! 

CHAMBERSAC.  Don't  make  fun  of  me !  I  can't  afford  to 
loan  money  to  any  one — except  at  high  interest.  I  am  of- 
fering the  Prince  a  hundred  and  thirty  thousand  for  his 
sword 

MONTREJEAU.     The  Constable's  sword? 

CHAMBERSAC.  Of  course;  I  have  a  number  of  commis- 
sions for  it. 

MONTREJEAU.     But  my  cousin  refuses  to  sell  it,  I  hope? 

CHAMBERSAC.     So  far,  yes.    He  is  wrong. 

MONTREJEAU.     That  depends. 

CHAMBERSAC.  What's  the  matter?  You  seem  to  be  sur- 
prised that  I  should — engage  in  business — like  a  trades- 
man— with  my  noble  name ? 

MONTREJEAU.     Yes  and  no. 

CHAMBERSAC.     [Patronizing  him.]     Young  man! 

MONTADE.  [To  MONTREJEAU.]  It's  not  difficult  to  see 
that  you  don't  live  in  Paris ! 

CHAMBERSAC.  I  carry  on  a  number  of  other  business 
affairs;  ask  Monsieur!  [Pointing  to  MONTADE.] 

MONTADE.     That's  true. 

CHAMBERSAC.  Are  you  scandalized?  What  can  a  no- 
bleman do  nowadays  when  he  is  without  a  sou,  except  die 
of  starvation — which  he  has  a  perfect  right  to  do — or  make 
use  of  his  native  talent  and  go  into  business?  Some  do 
painting  and  sculpture 

MONTADE.     But  they  never  sell  their  work  for  money. 

CHAMBERSAC.  Others  drive  carriages  and  shoot  pigeons; 
some,  who  have  the  knack  of  language,  go  into  literature, 
but  they're  in  a  minority. 

MONTADE.     Fortunately ! 

CHAMBERSAC.  But  I  don't  paint,  I'm  not  a  sculptor,  and 
I  don't  compose  operas  to  be  performed  in  private — I  have 


82  HENRI  LAVEDAN 

no  talent — except  for  business,  and  that  I  develop,  thanking 
Providence  for  having  given  to  a  bachelor  marquis,  a  useless 
fellow  like  me,  destined  to  ruin  and  damnation,  the  com- 
mon sense  and  ordinary  gifts  which  are  necessary  to  a 
tradesman!  I  believe  that  to-day  commerce  is  the  only 
field  in  which  my  talents  are  of  any  use — I  can  do  great 
things !  If  M.  de  Talleyrand  were  limping  through  life 
to-day,  he  would  without  the  shadow  of  a  doubt  go  into 
business,  and  he  would  be  perfectly  justified  in  so  doing! 
Now  I  haven't  the  genius  of  the  Prince  de  Benevent,1  so 
I  work  in  a  very  limited  field:  where  I  was  born — and  I  do 
a  very  thriving  little  business  in  many  ways.  I  ferret  out 
those  little  gifts  which  form  the  basis  of 

MONTADE.     Friendship  ? 

CHAMBERSAC.  If  you  like!  I  sell  family  jewels,  or  buy 
them,  I  effect  exchanges,  I  search  out  titles  to  nobility — 
that  have  hitherto  escaped  notice;  pay  cash  for  historic 
swords  and  wipe  out  gambling  debts.  I  carry  on  these 
affairs  in  perfect  good  taste,  without  discussion  and  argu- 
ment, as  people  of  my  station  should. 

MONTADE.     And  you  get  along  very  well! 

CHAMBERSAC.  The  moral  side  I  have  to  handle  with  in- 
finite tact  and  the  utmost  discretion.  Think  of  it:  I  un- 
tangle the  most  knotted  problems,  smooth  over  all  sorts 
of  difficulties !  Ah,  the  tears  I  have  been  witness  of  in  my 
time ! 

MONTADE.     And  you  dry  them ? 

CHAMBERSAC.     Not  always! 

MONTREJEAU.      [Aside.]      The  old  brigand! 

CHAMBERSAC.     Then  I  act  as  artistic  adviser  to  parvenu 

and  inartistic  millionaires;  I  give  them  the  benefit  of  my 

skilled  sense  of  what  is  fitting,  I  give  the  furnishers  and 

decorators  beautiful  ideas,  for  which  they  pay  me  hand- 

1  Talleyrand. 


THE  PRINCE  D'AUREC  88 

somely — and  find  a  way  not  to  lose  on  their  commission 
themselves !  In  short,  I  am  Chambersac ;  the  unique  Cham- 
bersac,  the  Marquis,  as  if  there  were  only  one  in  France, 
who  might  well  put  on  his  card:  "  Regent  of  style,  Arbiter 
of  fashion,  Professor  of  toilette." 

MONTREJEAU.  [Holding  out  his  hand  to  him.]  You 
are  a  real  gentleman;  shake  hands! 

MONTADE.      [Aside.]     A  fine  one,  too! 

MONTREJEAU.      [Seeing  the  ladies  enter.]     Ah! 

[Enter  the  COUNT  and  COUNTESS  DE  GANJAY,  the  BARON 
and  BARONESS  DE  BERTAMONT.  They  wear  costumes  of 
the  time  of  Henri  III.] 

MME.  DE  BERTAMONT.  [Very  gay.  She  holds  the  hand 
of  MADAME  DE  GANCAY.]  Ladies  of  the  court  of  Henri 
III! 

MME.  DE  GANCAY.  [Indicating  her  husband  and  M.  DE 
BERTAMONT.]  And  their  playthings! 

M.  DE  GANCAY.     What  a  comparison! 

MME.  DE  BERTAMONT.  [Dancing  a  fen)  steps  of  the 
Pavane.]  Look! 

MME.  DE  GANJAY.     [Also  dancing.]     How  are  we? 

CHAMBERSAC.     Like  two  Clouet  portraits. 

MONTADE.     Ah,  ladies! 

MONTREJEAU.  [Nervously.]  We  haven't  a  moment  for 
trifling  now.  Let's  admire  ourselves  later!  [Clapping  his 
hands.]  Bertamont,  get  them  in  place! 

[The  musicians  come  in  at  the  back  and  lake  their  places 
on  the  balcony  over  the  large  room.] 

M.  DE  GANCAY.     I  don't  see  the  Prince  and  Princess. 

MONTREJEAU.  They're  just  putting  the  finishing  touches 
to  their  costumes.  Come,  now ! 

MME.  DE  GANCAY.  [To  MONTADE.]  I  think  you're 
very  fetching !  Do  you  dress  like  that  often  at  home  ? 

MONTADE.     Every  time  I  expect  Columbine ! 


84  HENRI  LAVEDAN 

M.  DE  BERTAMONT.  [To  his  wife,  aside.]  Really,  don't 
I  look  ridiculous  in  these  tights? 

MME.  DE  BERTAMONT.     Not  in  the  least! 

M.  DE  BERTAMONT.     I  feel  as  if  I  had  nothing  on. 

MME.  DE  BERTAMONT.  It's  because  you  aren't  used  to  it, 
dear. 

M.  DE  GANGWAY.  [Impatiently.]  Is  your  Pavane  going 
to  be  danced  this  year  or  next? 

MONTREJEAU.      [Regretfully.]     We're  not  all  here! 

CHAMBERSAC.     If  you  need  me,  I'll  act  as  dummy? 

MME.  DE  BERTAMONT.  We  need  Madame  de  Saint- 
Patrice. 

[Enter  MADAME  and  MADEMOISELLE  DE  SAINT-PATRICE. 

MME.  DE  SAINT-PATRICE.  Here  I  am!  Fraysieres  is 
coming,  too! 

[Enter  the  MARQUIS  DE  FRAYSIERES. 
M.  DE  FRAYSIERES.     Present! 
[Enter  MADAME  and  MADEMOISELLE  DE  SERQUIGNY. 

MME.  DE  GANCAY.     Madame  de  Serquigny. 

MONTREJEAU.  [To  those  mho  have  just  entered.]  We 
were  only  waiting  for  you ! 

MME.  DE  GANCAY.  [To  MME.  DE  SERQUIGNY.]  Your 
daughter  is  lovely! 

M.  DE  FRAYSIERES.  [To  MLLE.  DE  SERQUIGNY,  aside.] 
Mademoiselle 

MME.  DE  SERQUIGNY.  [To  MME.  DE  GANCAY.]  You 
think  so?  She'll  make  a  charming  house-wife.  I'm  count- 
ing on  this  ball 

MME.  DE  GANCAY.     To  marry  her? 

MME.  DE  SERQUIGNY.     Better  than  myself,  if  possible! 

M.  DE  FRAYSIERES.      [To  MLLE.  DE  SERQUIGNY.]      I  put 


THE  PRINCE  D'AUREC  85 

a  louis  for  you  on  Vol-au-Vent  yesterday,  as  you  told  me. 
Here  is  the  sixty  francs  you  won. 

[He  gives  her  the  money  without  being  seen. 

MLLE.  DE  SERQUIGNY.     What  luck ! 

MONTREJEAU.  Take  your  places !  We'll  gossip  later ! 
Ladies,  gentlemen,  Mademoiselle — musicians!  Clear  the 
floor,  those  who  are  not  in  the  dance !  Now,  keep  well 
in  mind,  the  Pavane  is  the  noble  dance  par  excellence. 
Dance  for  pleasure  if  you  will,  but  remain  elegant  and  dig- 
nified. Don't  forget  that!  Now  remember,  at  the  end  of 
the  Pavane,  each  gentleman  kisses  his  partner;  the  kiss 
must  be  light,  evanescent.  [He  imitates  the  kiss  by 
smacking  his  lips.]  So  light!  Now,  glide!  Every  one 
understand  ? 

MONTADE.     [To  MONTREJEAU.]     A  child  could. 

[Every  one  is  in  place,  ready  for  the  dance. 

MONTREJEAU.  Good!  [To  the  musicians.]  Musicians, 
one,  two,  three — glide! 

[They  begin  the  Pavane.  It  is  danced  by  eight  persons; 
the  couples  are  divided  as  follows:  the  COUNT  DE  GANCAY 
and  the  BARONESS  DE  BERTAMONT;  the  BARON  DE  BERTA- 
MONT  and  the  COUNTESS  DE  GANCAY;  MONTREJEAU  and 
MADAME  DE  SAINT-PATRICE;  the  MARQUIS  DE  FRAYSIERES 
and  MADEMOISELLE  DE  SERQUIGNY.  The  following  con- 
versation takes  place  during  the  dance,  while  the  dancers 
are  laughing  and  joking.] 

M.  DE  GANCAY.  Look  at  Bertamont,  the  way  his  foot 
sticks  out ! 

MONTREJEAU.  Silence!  Monsieur  de  Bertamont  is  not 
in  step ! 

M.  DE  BERTAMONT.  The  musicians  insist  on  going  ahead 
of  me! 

MONTREJEAU.  [To  M.  DE  BERTAMONT.]  Catch  up, 
then.  Mme.  de  Bertamont,  you  are  not  keeping  step. 


86  HENRI  LAVEDAN 

MME.  DE  BERTAMONT.     Monsieur  de  Camay's  fault! 

M.  DE  GAN^AY.     Mine? 

MME.  DE  BERTAMONT.    He's  telling  me  naughty  stories ! 

M.  DE  GANCAY.    Oh,  Madame ! 

MME.  DE  GANCAY.  [To  MME.  DE  BERTAMONT.]  For- 
give him:  his  bite  is  not  as  bad  as  his  bark! 

MONTREJEAU.  [Stopping  the  dance.]  We  can't  work 
while  all  this  is  going  on! 

ALL.     We'll  be  still ! — There,  now ! — Pardon  us ! 

MONTREJEAU.  Very  well,  then !  Just  a  word,  now  that 
we've  stopped.  [Taking  a  violin  from  one  of  the  musi- 
cians.] Gentlemen,  Maestro,  please!  [To  the  dancers.] 
You  are  all  very  nice,  but  you  haven't  the  dance  yet !  You 
lack — color!  You,  Bertamont,  [singing  and  playing  the 
violin],  yours  is  no  Pavane!  On  the  tips  of  the  toes,  not 
flat-footed !  What  do  you  mean  ?  There !  As  if  you  were 
on  velvet! — Good!  [Returning  the  violin.]  Now  let  us 
try  over  again — this  is  absolutely  the  last  time,  I  warn 
you !  Ready ! 

[He  raises  his  arm,  and  the  musicians  recommence.  The 
dancers  begin  again  in  silence.  CHAMBERSAC  and  MON- 
TADE  are  seated  near  each  other,  by  the  table  to  the  left. 
CHAMBERSAC  is  looking  at  a  piece  of  paper  which  he  holds 
in  his  hand.] 

MONTADE.  [Leaning  over  toward  CHAMBERSAC.]  What 
are  you  reading? 

CHAMBERSAC.  A  list  of  the  guests  that  was  lying  about. 
Look,  the  Princess  de  Larmor  is  the  Queen  of  Sheba. 

MONTADE.  Is  she  the  one  who  had  that  disgraceful 
trial? 

CHAMBERSAC.  She  took  my  advice  on  it,  and  won  her 
case.  Superb  shoulders! — The  Marquis  de  Precignac  as 
Charles  I. 

MONTADE.     Is  he  the  officer? 


THE  PRINCE  D'AUREC  87 

CHAMBERSAC.  His  brother.  He's  in  business;  director 
of  the  Submarine  Credit.  Clever  fellow ! 

MONTADE.  [Also  reading  the  list.]  Landerbourg  as  a 
clown  of  the  Middle  Ages. 

CHAMBERSAC.     Oh,  the  little  Prince  de  Glaive  as  Punch. 

MONTADE.     Black  costume,  I  presume? 

CHAMBERSAC.     Why  black? 

MONTADE.     His  grandmother  died  three  weeks  ago ! 

CHAMBERSAC.     You're  malicious ! 

MONTADE.  No,  I'm  not.  I'm  simply  having  a  capital 
time.  I'm  taking  notes  on  everything.  I  am  the  soul  of 
kindness. 

CHAMBERSAC.  You're  as  good  as  a  man  of  letters  can 
be! 

[The  Pavane  draws  to  a  close. 

MONTREJEAU.  Lightly,  lightly,  now — Bravo!  There  is 
the  real  Pavane !  Exudes  the  spirit  of  nobility !  Dance  it 
like  that  before  the  Queen,  and  watch  the  effect !  We  shall 
be  the  sensation  of  the  ball! 

[Enter  the  PRINCE,  as  the  Constable  (but  without  the 
cuirass,  which  a  servant  carries);  the  PRINCESS,  as  Marion 
Delorme;  and  DE  HORN.] 

PRINCESS.  [To  MONTREJEAU.]  Well,  Jo  jo,  are  you 
satisfied  with  your  dancers  ? 

MONTREJEAU.  I  am  easier;  the  dance  will  be  a  suc- 
cess. 

PRINCE.  [To  the  servant.]  Put  it  there.  [The  serv- 
ant goes  out.] 

PRINCESS.  Ladies,  gentlemen!  How  are  you,  Montade? 
Chambersac ! 

CHAMBERSAC.  [Kissing  her  hand.]  To  whom  have  I 
the  honor  to  do  obeisance? 

PRINCESS.  Let  me  tell  you:  I  was  born  in  1612 — at 
Chalons  or  Blois,  it  is  not  certain  which.  I  was  celebrated 


88  HENRI  LAVEDAN 

during  half  of  a  great  century ;  among  my  personal  friends 
were  Cinq-Mars,  Saint-Evrement,  Buckingham,  Gram- 
mont,  the  great  Conde,  Richelieu,  and  Louis  XIII.  Each 
loved  me  in  a  different  way:  I  loved  them  all  alike.  Then 
I  was  mysteriously  eclipsed,  so  that  no  historian  has  ever 
been  able  to  find  out  the  date  of  my  death.  Sometimes 
I  return;  this  evening  it  is  my  pleasure  to  appear  before 
you  on  the  arm  of  the  Constable  d'Aurec.  Good  my  lords, 
and  fair  ladies,  welcome  in  your  midst  Marion  Delorme ! 

CHAMBERSAC.     Spoken  like  a  queen ! 

PRINCESS.     That  is  because  I  have  reigned. 

MONTREJEAU.         [To    M.     DE     BERTAMONT.]         Come     for- 

ward !  [He  takes  DE  BERTAMONT  in  a  corner  to  show  him 
something  about  the  dance.] 

MONTADE.  [To  the  PRINCE.]  You  are  superb,  too. 
You  really  give  the  impression  of  the  Constable ! 

MME.  DE  SAINT-PATRICE.  Are  you  going  to  put  on  your 
helmet  and  cuirass  to  receive  the  guests? 

PRINCE.     Alas,  yes ! 

MME.  DE  SAINT-PATRICE.  [Picking  up  the  helmet.] 
Oh,  it's  heavy! 

PRINCE.  [Showing  it  to  her  in  detail.]  One  of  my 
ancestors  wore  it  at  the  siege  of  Brescia ;  the  plume  is  gone. 

MME.  DE  SAINT-PATRICE.     In  battle? 

PRINCE.     No,  in  a  house-moving! 

MONTADE.  [Pointing  to  the  sword.]  There's  the  fa- 
mous sword! 

PRINCE.  [Drawing  it  from  the  scabbard.]  The  his- 
toric razor ! 

MONTREJEAU.  [Still  with  DE  BERTAMONT.]  Bend 
from  the  knee — you're  not  bending  at  all ! 

M.  DE  BERTAMONT.  [Out  of  humor.]  I've  been  doing 
that  for  the  last  ten  minutes !  You're  too  particular ! 

MONTADE.      [Taking  the  sword  from   the  hands  of  the 


THE  PRINCE  D'AUREC  89 

PRINCE.]  Poor  sword!  [Every  one  listens  to  him.]  Don't 
you  see  something  lamentably  sad  in  all  these  jewels  and 
fleurs-de-lys  ?  I  can  hardly  keep  from  saying,  as  I  look 
at  this  blade 

PRINCE.  [Taking  back  the  sword.]  No  "copy"  now, 
please ! 

MME.  DE  BERTAMONT.  [Disappointed.]  Oh,  Prince,  he 
was  going  to  say  something  charming ! 

PRINCESS.  Don't  worry:  we'll  find  it  all  in  his  next 
novel ! 

PRINCE.  Nothing  is  lost  with  him.  [Brandishing  his 
sword,  then  looking  at  it.]  These  great  sabers — these  his- 
toric weapons,  you  know — [he  puts  it  quickly  back  in  the 
scabbard] — are  out  of  date — they  are  not  carried  any 
longer. 

MONTADE.     Oh,  yes,  they  are :  to  the  auction  room  ! 

[Enter  JOSEPH,  right. 

JOSEPH.  I  have  been  sent  to  say  that  the  rooms  are  now 
lighted. 

[He  goes  out. 

M.  DE  BERTAMONT.     Shall  we  go? 

MME.  DE  SAINT-PATRICE.     Let  us  take  a  look ! 

M.  DE  BERTAMONT.  [Preparing,  like  the  rest,  to  leave.] 
One  moment!  Look! 

[He  points  to  the  door  through  which  DE  HORN,  as  a 
Rajah,  covered  with  diamonds,  now  enters.] 

MONTADE.     Monsieur  de  Horn! 

PRINCESS.     Marvelous ! 

MME.  DE  BERTAMONT.     Oh,  what  a  splendid  Rajah! 

CHAMBERSAC.     Just  back  from  India ! 

MLLE.  DE  SAINT-PATRICE.     Who  is  the  dazzler? 

M.  DE  BERTAMONT.     The  Baron  de  Horn! 

MME.  DE  SAINT-PATRICE.  The  man  with  so  much 
money  ? 


90  HENRI  LAVEDAN 

PRINCESS.  [To  the  BARON.]  Your  entrance  somehow 
lacked  effect;  a  Rajah  like  you  should  have  come  on  an 
elephant. 

MLLE.  DE  SAINT-PATRICE.     A  white  one ! 

DE  HORN.     I  left  him  in  the  cloak-room. 

[Everybody  except  the  PRINCE,  PRINCESS,  and  DE  HORN 
goes  out.] 

MONTREJEAU.  [As  he  goes  out  with  DE  GANCAY.]  Too 
much  j  ewelry ! 

M.  DE  BERTAMONT.  [To  MONTREJEAU.]  Are  you  sure 
his  teeth  aren't  set  with  diamonds? 

DE  HORN.  [To  the  PRINCESS.]  Aren't  you  going  with 
them  ? 

PRINCESS.  [As  she  sits  down.]  I'm  tired;  I  shall  be 
standing  long  enough  later  on. 

DE  HORN.  I  came  through  the  galleries  downstairs: 
beautifully  arranged! 

PRINCE.  Chambersac  looked  after  that. — I'm  in  splen- 
did humor  to-night! 

PRINCESS.     You'll  be  late  if  you  don't  hurry ! 

PRINCE.  That's  true.  There's  that  cuirass,  that  an- 
cestral strong-box !  I  tell  you  it  is  anything  but  easy  to 
put  the  thing  on ! 

PRINCESS.     Courage ! 

DE  HORN.  Your  ancestors  didn't  mind  a  little  thing 
like  that ! 

PRINCE.  They  had  nothing  else  to  do  then!  [He  goes 
out.] 

PRINCESS.  [After  a  pause,  extending  her  hand  to  DE 
HORN.]  Thank  you.  You  acted  as  tactfully  as  a  great 
lord. 

DE  HORN.     As  a  friend,  merely. 

PRINCESS.  If  Dominique  had  not  been  so  unlucky  at 
play  these  last  three  months,  I 


THE  PRINCE  D'AUREC  91 

DE  HORN.     I  know. 

PRINCESS.  I  should  never  have  had  to  go  to  stran- 
gers  

DE  HORN.     Never  mind  that! 

PRINCESS.  But  I  always  insist  on  paying  my  debts:  in 
a  year's  time  I  shall  no  longer  be  your  debtor. 

DE  HORN.     I  regret  it. 

PRINCESS.  Oh!  [Delicately.]  Notice  that  I  did  not 
say  I  should  not  be  infinitely  obliged  to  you! 

DE  HORN.  Those  words  are  worth  all  the  money  I  have 
loaned  you.  But  really  I  am  your  debtor — yours  and  the 
Prince's — especially  yours ! 

PRINCESS.     In  what  way? 

DE  HORN.  In  what  way?  During  the  past  two  years 
I  have  risen  considerably  in  the  world. 

PRINCESS.     Two  years,  you  say? 

DE  HORN.     Yes,  Princess. 

PRINCESS.     How  quickly  time  passes  when  one  is  idle ! 

DE  HORN.  I  remember  clearly  the  circumstances  under 
which  I  first  met  your  husband. 

PRINCESS.     I  don't  remember! 

DE  HORN.  It  was  at  a  ball  given  by  the  d'Amboises.  I 
had  just  arrived  from  a  long  visit  in  Portugal.  At  that 
time  I  had  very  little  to  do  with  the  best  Parisian  society. 

PRINCESS.     Since  then  you've  made  up  for  lost  time ! 

DE  HORN.  Thanks  to  you !  As  I  was  looking  on  at 
the  dance  I  heard  a  voice  behind  me :  "  A  Jew,  this  Mon- 
sieur de  Horn?  " — "  A  good  Jew!  " — "  Is  that  ribbon  he's 
wearing  the  Legion  of  Honor  ?  " — "  No,  it's  the  Order  of 
the  Christ !  " — "  Ah !  "  said  another,  and  then  they  all 
laughed.  So  did  I.  I  turned  round  to  see  the  author  of 
the  joke;  I  asked  who  he  was,  and  was  told:  the  Prince 
d'Aurec ! 

PRINCESS.     I'm  so  sorry!     How  impertinent  of  him! 


92  HENRI  LAVEDAN 

DE  HORN.  I  can  appreciate  a  good  joke,  when  it  is 
really  clever,  and  that  one  was.  Five  minutes  later,  I  ob- 
tained an  introduction  to  him;  your  husband  was  charm- 
ing  


PRINCESS.     Now  I  remember- 


DE  HORN.  And  that,  Princess,  was  the  beginning  of 
our  friendship. 

PRINCESS.  I  should  have  preferred  another.  You 
weren't  too  offended  at  what  the  Prince  said? 

DE  HORN.  Not  in  the  least.  The  best  way  to  success 
in  this  old  world  is  never  to  be  offended. 

PRINCESS.  But  I  really  don't  see  how  we  have  been  of 
any  service  to  you — or  even  how  our  hospitality ? 

DE  HORN.  One  moment:  I'm  coming  to  that.  You  re- 
ceived me,  a  man  who  was  not  of  your  race  nor  of  your 
rank ;  you  treated  me  as  a  social  equal,  in  public 

PRINCESS.     All  mankind  are  brothers,  Monsieur. 

DE  HORN.  In  the  New  Testament,  not  in  the  salon !  I 
am  not  joking:  you  have  shown  great  courage  in  receiving 
me  as  you  have,  in  spite  of  the  prejudices  of  society.  You 
have  opened — at  least  wide  enough  for  me  to  enter — doors 
which,  without  your  assistance,  I  should  never  have  been 
able  to  pass  through 

PRINCESS.  Nor  will  they  be  the  last.  I  know  your 
wishes  in  regard  to  the  club. 

DE  HORN.  Oh,  Princess!  Yes,  I  can  say  with  perfect 
frankness,  you  have  raised  me  to  your  level,  and  definitely 
"  placed "  me.  Before  I  knew  you  I  was  an  ordinary 
banker,  one  of  fifty  in  Paris;  to-day  I  appear  before  the 
world  as  an  aristocrat,  a  man  of  birth,  simply  because  I 
sit  at  your  table.  I  am  deeply  obliged,  Princess,  and  very 
glad  to  have  this  occasion  to  tell  you  how  I  appreciate 
all  you  have  seen  fit  to  do  for  me ! 

PRINCESS.     Not  so  much,  after  all !     If  our  relations  with 


THE  PRINCE  D'AUREC  93 

you  have  helped  you,  I  am  only  too  happy  to  see  that  you 
are  at  least  not  ungrateful. 

DE  HORN.     Oh,  please ! 

PRINCESS.  I  am !  You  have  been  of  great  service  to  me; 
I  shall  never  forget. 

DE  HORN.     Never? 

PRINCESS.     Do  you  want  me  to  say  it  again? 

DE  HORN.  Never  is  a  great  deal.  I  don't  ask  that  much. 
I  ask  you  to  remember  it — some  day! 

PRINCESS.     What  day? 

DE  HORN.     I  shall  tell  you. 

PRINCESS.  [Aside.]  I  have  been  too  grateful!  [To 
DE  HORN,  playfully.]  Now,  Monsieur  le  rajah,  if  you 
wish  our  relations  to  continue,  you  must  swear  one  thing 
to  me. 

DE  HORN.     Swear  by  what? 

PRINCESS.  What  you  hold  most  dear,  according  to  the 
formula. 

DE  HORN.     Then  I  swear  by 

PRINCESS.     Your  diamonds? 

DE  HORN.     Very  well!    Now  what  shall  I  swear? 

PRINCESS.     Swear  first. 

DE  HORN.     Juro. 

PRINCESS.     Not  to  make  love  to  me. 

DE  HORN.     I  don't  swear  it. 

PRINCESS.     Why? 

DE  HORN.  I  want  immediately  what  is  denied  me.  For 
that  reason  I  have  sworn  never  to  go  into  a  museum;  the 
moment  I  see  a  sign  "  Do  not  touch !  "  I  do  touch ! 

PRINCESS.     But  this  isn't  a  museum ! 

DE  HORN.  That  is  so,  yet  I  can't  help  thinking  that 
I'm  at  the  Louvre. 

PRINCESS.  Then  you  will  not  swear  what  I  asked  you 
to? 


94,  HENRI  LAVEDAN 

DE  HORN.  An  oath  at  a  fancy-dress  ball?  What's  that? 
I  should  never  abide  by  it.  Then  it  has  never  been  so 
difficult  as  this  evening !  You  are  too  beautiful ! 

PRINCESS.     Then  I  have  some  hope  for  the  other  days ! 

DE  HORN.     Don't  be  too  confident! 

PRINCESS.  You  are  right,  we  should  never  be  too  con- 
fident. You  magnificent  Hindoo,  you  have  changed  a  great 
deal  the  last  few  minutes.  You're  so  gallant  and  chivalrous, 
and  the  way  you  talk  to  me ! 

DE  HORN.     I  am  speaking  to  Marion! 

PRINCESS.  Then  I  understand.  Well,  take  care  that 
Marion  doesn't  take  offense  at  what  is  said  to  the  Princess 
d'Aurec ! 

DE  HORN.  I  have  no  fear.  The  Princess  d'Aurec  be- 
longs to  the  Rajah!  [Enter  the  PRINCE. 

PRINCE.  [Wearing  his  cuirass.]  The  hero  of  1523! 
I  have  at  last  succeeded  in  getting  into  my  diver's  suit. 
[He  hands  some  papers  to  his  wife.]  Here  are  the  proofs 
of  the  article  on  the  ball  for  to-morrow's  "  L'Instantane." 

PRINCESS.  [Taking  the  proofs.  To  DE  HORN  before 
she  reads  them:]  Excuse  me? 

DE  HORN.  [To  the  PRINCE.]  Aren't  you  very  uncom- 
fortable in  that  armor? 

PRINCE.  No.  Of  course,  I  couldn't  go  bicycle-riding, 
but  I  can  move  about  fairly  well.  I  could  very  easily  man- 
age to  cut  the  cards !  Nine,  ten,  your  play !  Very  easily ! 
[To  his  wife.]  Any  errors? 

PRINCESS.  No.  Here's  the  part  about  us  [reading] : 
"  As  the  Princess  d'Aurec  entered  the  ballroom  all  heads 
were  turned  toward  one  of  the  most  charming  young  ladies 
of  the  French  aristocracy;  her  sparkling  appearance  and 
fresh  beauty  were  further  heightened  by  the  costume  she 
wore,  that  of  Marion  Delorme."  Quite  exact !  "  At  her 
side  the  Prince,  her  husband,  was  dressed  to  represent  the 


THE  PRINCE  D'AUREC  95 

Constable;  he  wore  the  helmet,  cuirass,  and  sword  of  his 
forefather  Guzman  d'Aurec.  The  Prince  presented  an 
exceedingly  magnificent  figure  quite  in  harmony  with  the 
dignified  spirit  that  is  everywhere  manifest  in  his  ancient 
and  honorable  house." 

PRINCE.  [Flattered.]  Not  bad!  [Fastening  the 
buckle  of  his  garter.]  Very  good,  in  fact! 

PRINCESS.  Listen  to  the  rest:  "  Not  far  from  the  Prince 
and  Princess  is  distinguished  the  dignified  figure  of  the 
Duchess  de  Talais  as  Madame  de  Maintenon.  The  clever 
yet  simple  and  unpretentious  Duchess  gave  the  impression 
of  a  Largilliere  portrait  which  had  come  down  from  its 
frame  and  walked." 

PRINCE.  [In  an  undertone,  smiling  slightly.]  Poor 
Mother ! 

[The  DUCHESS  enters  quickly.  She  is  dressed  as  Madame 
de  Maintenon,  with  a  high  coiffure,  covered  with  lace.] 

DUCHESS.  [To  the  PRINCE.]  Dominique,  I  must  see 
you  at  once!  [To  DE  HORN.]  Please  excuse  me,  Mon- 
sieur ! 

DE  HORN.     Certainly. 

DUCHESS.    My  daughter-in-law  will  accompany  you. 

PRINCESS.  [To  the  DUCHESS.]  Don't  you  want  me, 
either  ? 

PRINCE.     It  seems  not! 

PRINCESS.     Very  well:  I'll  go. 

PRINCE.  [Aside  to  his  wife.]  I  think  my  mother 
knows ! 

PRINCESS.  [Aside  to  her  husband.]  She  seems  to.  Oh, 
she  will  give  you  your  four  hundred  thousand!  Ha! 

PRINCE.     You  seem  amused ! 

DE  HORN.  [Aside.]  There'll  be  a  scene!  [To  the 
DUCHESS.]  Duchess! 

[The  PRINCESS  and  DE  HORN  go  out. 


96  HENRI  LAVEDAN 


PRINCE.     Now,  tell  me- 


DUCHESS.  I  know  all:  the  four  hundred  thousand 
francs  you  lost  last  night,  the  condition  this  house  is 
in,  all  the  money  you  owe — everything!  Tell  me  now  I 
don't! 

PRINCE.  There  is  a  great  deal  of  truth  in  what  you  say; 
there  is  much  exaggeration. 

DUCHESS.  Nothing  is  exaggerated:  I  have  reliable  in- 
formation. 

PRINCE.     From  whom,  if  you  please? 

DUCHESS.  From  one  who  is  in  a  position  to  know: 
Bertin. 

PRINCE.  [With  a  sneer.]  Bertin!  He  is  your  spy, 
isn't  he?  [He  rises  and  rings  the  bell.] 

DUCHESS.  Who  has  done  his  duty  in  telling  me.  He 
has  just  been  to  my  house. 

PRINCE.  He  might  just  as  well  have  stayed  there!  The 
idea!  The ! 

DUCHESS.  I  hope  you  won't  say  anything  to  him?  He 
is  a  good,  faithful  man 

PRINCE.  I  can  very  well  dispense  with  his  services,  as 
you  shall  see !  [Enter  BERTIN.]  Ah,  it's  you,  Monsieur ! 
You've  done  a  trick  for  my  mother  that  I  don't  like  at  all ! 
I  discharge  you! 

DUCHESS.     Dominique ! 

PRINCE.      [To  BERTIN.]      That  will  do. 

BERTIN.     Very  well,  Prince. 

DUCHESS.     I  engage  you  at  once,  Bertin. 

BERTIN.  Very  well,  Madame  la  duchesse.  [He  goes 
out.] 

DUCHESS.  What  a  brutal  thing  to  do!  You  shouldn't 
have  done  that! 

PRINCE.     I  should  do  it  again! 

DUCHESS.     I  know:  you  always  do  that!     But  this  time 


THE  PRINCE  D'AUREC  97 

things  are  going  to  be  a  little  different  from  what  they 
have  been  in  the  past 

PRINCE.      [Jokingly.]      I'm  no  longer  a  child! 

DUCHESS.  But  I  am  always  your  mother,  as  you  will 
soon  see !  Listen  to  what  I've  come  to  tell  you. 

PRINCE.      [Impatiently.]      No,  no,  Mother! 

DUCHESS.     You  refuse  to  listen? 

PRINCE.  Of  course  I  refuse.  This  is  no  time — !  I'm 
giving  a  ball — here  I  am  in  my  helmet.  Look  at  you,  too: 
Guzman  d'Aurec  being  lectured  by  the  Widow  Scarron !  * 
Ridiculous ! 

DUCHESS.  Why  is  it  ridiculous?  What  is  so  ridiculous 
in  carrying  the  helmet  and  sword  of  a  Constable,  of  the 
Constable  who  was  the  glory  and  honor  of  our  name ? 

PRINCE.  Oh,  leave  the  poor  Constable  in  peace,  please ! 
What  has  he  to  do  with  the  matter  in  hand? 

DUCHESS.  Nothing,  I  am  sorry  to  say.  But  you  have, 
and  the  matter  is  serious.  Do  you  realize  your  situation 
at  this  moment? 

PRINCE.  At  this  moment  we  should  be  receiving  our 
guests. 

DUCHESS.     Think  of  your  situation. 

PRINCE.     It's  ridiculous. 

DUCHESS.     It's  terrible! 

PRINCE.  Then  you  want  a  scene?  You  must  have  one? 
Very  well,  begin.  Let  us  talk  business,  and  be  brief ! 

DUCHESS.  Very  well!  I  must  however  go  back  a  few 
years.  [The  PRINCE  sighs.]  Why  are  you  sighing? 

PRINCE.     Go  ahead,  go  ahead ! 

DUCHESS.  Never  fear!  I  sha'n't  go  far  back.  When  I 
was  married 

PRINCE.     Come  at  once  to  the  deluge ! 

1  Madame  de  Maintenon  was  at  one  time  the  wife  of  the  writer 
Scarron. 


98  HENRI  LAVEDAN 

DUCHESS.     What  do  you  mean? 

PRINCE.     Nothing. 

DUCHESS.  Probably  something  impertinent!  But  I'm 
used  to  you.  When  I  married,  at  the  age  of  nineteen,  I 
had  a  large  fortune.  The  day  I  lost  your  poor  father  you 
were  very  young,  you  never  knew  in  what  a  state  his  affairs 
were !  My  dowry  I  arranged  so  that  my  husband  might  use 
it,  in  spite  of  my  family's  objections 

PRINCE.  This  is  really  a  very  painful  subject  to  me. 
Don't  talk  about  it! 

DUCHESS.  Not  as  painful  as  it  is  to  me.  Of  a  dowry 
of  fifteen  millions,  only  three  remain. 

PRINCE.     That's  a  very  fair  sum! 

DUCHESS.     With  the  remaining  three  millions 

PRINCE.  Yes,  I  know  everything:  acting  on  the  advice 
of  M.  Sorbier,  a  lawyer  and  friend  of  your  father's,  you 
placed  me  in  a  boarding-school  at  Angers,  you  yourself 
lived  not  far  away,  at  Recigny,  and  there  by  means  of 
strict  economy  you  were  enabled  to  mend  the  family  for- 
tunes a  little 

DUCHESS.  During  twelve  years,  and  by  all  sorts  of  pri- 
vations. 

PRINCE.     Well?     What  about  it? 

DUCHESS.  Listen,  and  you  will  know.  You  thought  fit 
to  remain  idle  while  you  were  supposed  to  be  studying, 
you  couldn't  even  pass  your  first  degree  while  ordinary 
farmers'  sons 

PRINCE.  I  beg  your  pardon:  I  passed  the  written 
examination.1 

DUCHESS.  And  were  refused  three  times  in  the  oral. 
When  you  left  college  you  lived  the  life  of  most  young  men : 
did  nothing  from  the  age  of  eighteen  to  thirty,  and  cost 
me  eleven  hundred  thousand  francs ! 

1  A  written  examination  must  first  be  passed,  then  an  oral. 


THE  PRINCE  D'AUREC  99 


PRINCE.     Now- 


DUCHESS.  Not  a  sou  less:  I  have  the  accounts  in  my 
books.  At  thirty,  thanks  to  me,  you  met  the  grand-niece  of 
the  Duke  de  Richelieu,  Therese  de  Varaucourt,  whom  you 
married.  It  was  a  superb  match !  I  thought  at  that  time 
you  would  settle  down !  Nothing  of  the  sort :  you  gambled 
as  before,  every  single  night,  and  in  two  years'  time  and 
less  you  have  squandered  your  wife's  dowry  and  your  own 
personal  fortune  of  a  hundred  thousand  francs  a  year ! 
Then  after  you  had  lost  all  your  own  money  you  begged 
me  for  more,  making  all  sorts  of  fine  promises. — "  I  promise 
you  never  to  touch  another  card !  "  I  was  foolish  enough 
to  believe  you;  for  the  third  time,  I  paid  your  debts,  and 
for  the  third  time  you  ruined  yourself.  Now  you  owe 
money  to  usurers,  upholsterers,  coachmakers,  florists, 
bakers,  and  butchers! 

PRINCE.  Let  us  leave  these  tradespeople  out  of  the 
discussion ! 

DUCHESS.  You  owe  more  than  two  hundred  thousand 
francs,  and  last  night  at  the  Jockey  Club  you  lost  four 
hundred  thousand  to  the  Prince  of  Suabia.  You're  in  a 
pretty  situation!  Well,  take  my  word  for  it,  I'm  done 
with  you !  You  need  expect  nothing  further  from  me ;  I 
shall  not  pay  a  single  sou ! 

PRINCE.  Not  a  single  sou ;  good !  Is  that  all?  I  should 
like  to  dance!  [He  starts  to  go.] 

DUCHESS.      [Calling  him  back.]     Dominique! 

PRINCE.     Yes? 

DUCHESS.     What  else  have  you  to  say  to  me? 

PRINCE.  What  else  can  I  say?  You  are  absolutely 
right;  if  I  were  in  your  place,  I  should  do  precisely  as  you 
are  doing.  [Again  he  starts  to  go.] 

DUCHESS.     My  poor  boy,  what  can  you  do? 

PRINCE.     I  know! 


100  HENRI  LAVEDAN 

DUCHESS.  More  than  six  hundred  thousand!  What 
will  you  do? 

PRINCE.     I'll  see  to  that! 

DUCHESS.     You  have  money,  then? 

PRINCE.     I  have  nothing! 

DUCHESS.     What,  then? 

PRINCE.     I  can  find  some. 

DUCHESS.     Where?     How? 

PRINCE.     You  need  have  no  fear ! 

DUCHESS.  But  I  have  a  right  to  know;  I  am  your 
mother !  How  will  you  get  the  money  ?  I  ought  to  know ; 
I  insist  on  knowing!  Do  you  realize  that  the  blood  of  the 
Talais  is  in  your  veins? 

PRINCE.     Blood  like  any  one  else's. 

DUCHESS.  No,  Monsieur,  it  is  the  blood  of  your  d'Aurec 
ancestors,  of  Marshal  de  Talais  who  was  killed  at  Denain, 
of  your  two  grandmothers  who  were  guillotined  in  '93 

PRINCE.  And  the  blood  of  the  Talais  who  deserted 
under  Henry  IV,  the  blood  of  the  Talais  who  voted  for 
the  death  of  Louis  XVI,  and  of  the  Talais  who  just  es- 
caped the  assizes ! 

DUCHESS.     Dominique ! 

PRINCE.     Whom  do  you  refer  to,  then?     I  don't  know! 

DUCHESS.  No  one  in  particular;  I  call  to  witness  all 
the  Talais  together  to  prevent  your  saying  such  out- 
rageous things,  to  exhort  you  to  live  a  life  a  little  more 
worthy  of  your  title,  of  the  glorious  past  which  they  have 
left  you,  and  which  you  are  disgracing! 

PRINCE.  How  can  I  exist?  I  must  live  the  life  of  my 
times ! 

DUCHESS.  Don't  blame  the  times !  You  live  a  life  of 
laziness  and  vice  that  pleases  you! 

PRINCE.  I  can't  bring  back  the  epoch  of  the  Crusades ! 
The  day  of  heroism  is  past! 


THE  PRINCE  D'AUREC  101 

DUCHESS.  You  ought  to  do  something  better  than  drive 
a  coach  from  Robinson! 

PRINCE.     Very  healthful  exercise! 

DUCHESS.     You  should  join  the  Royalists! 

PRINCE.  Thank  you!  One  never  knows  where  those 
things  lead  to ! 

DUCHESS.     But  to  help  the  king! 

PRINCE.  There  are  too  many  who  make  the  king  help 
them! 

DUCHESS.     Work ! 

PRINCE.     At  what? 

DUCHESS.  A  man  works  when  he  is  in  as  dangerous  a 
situation  as  you,  Monsieur ! 

PRINCE.  You  should  have  taught  me  a  trade,  Madame, 
when  I  was  young. 

DUCHESS.  You  might  at  least  not  get  head  over  heels  in 
debt! 

PRINCE.  I'm  not  alone!  The  Prince  of  Suabia  owes 
fifty  millions ! 

DUCHESS.  That  is  the  Prince  of  Suabia's  affairs:  you 
are  not  the  Prince  of  Suabia. 

PRINCE.  I  am  sorry  for  it!  His  mother's  a  queen,  she 
backs  him,  the  lucky  fellow. 

DUCHESS.  She  is  very  wrong  to  do  it !  If  I  were  in  her 
place 

PRINCE.  The  Queen  of  Suabia  does  what  she  likes:  you 
are  not  the  Queen  of  Suabia. — Come  now,  I  don't  want  to 
get  angry,  I  didn't  ask  to  see  you  now!  You  interrupt 
me  at  the  worst  possible  moment,  and  talk  to  me  about  the 
past,  the  present,  and  the  future;  my  father,  myself — 
about  everything!  You  blame  me,  seventeen  years  later, 
for  failing  in  my  examination ! 

DUCHESS.  I  merely  wanted  to  recall  all  I  have  done  for 
you! 


102  HENRI  LAVEDAN 

PRINCE.  You  had  no  need  to  tell  me  that.  Every 
time  you  pay  my  debts,  I  have  thanked  you.  We're 
even ! 

DUCHESS.     A  child  never  ceases  to  owe  its  parents ! 

PRINCE.  So  I  see.  You  are  a  very  hard  creditor!  You 
take  advantage  of  me  to  criticize  every  act  of  mine,  my 
tastes,  what  I  do,  how  I  live !  I  like  cards,  horses,  luxury, 
and  money!  What  of  it?  Fearful  crime!  I  am  a  gen- 
tleman; and  I  do  no  more  nor  less  than  others  to  maintain 
my  dignity  as  such. 

DUCHESS.  That  isn't  enough.  When  a  man  has  the 
honor  to  bear  your  name 

PRINCE.  Devil  take  my  name !  You'll  make  me  sick 
of  it  before  long!  Sometimes  I  wish  my  name  were 
Dubois  or  Morin;  then  I  shouldn't  have  to  listen  to  all 
this  twaddle.  It  seems  I  can't  be  noble  enough  for  you, 
who  were  born  in  the  faubourg  Saint-Antoine,  and  whose 
father  was  a  churn  manufacturer! 

DUCHESS.     He  was  an  honest  man! 

PRINCE.     Oh!     We  have  our  names — no  credit  to  us! 

DUCHESS.  No,  your  names  have  you — they  support 
you! 

PRINCE.  Tell  me  what  good  they  are!  They're  nice 
to  use  in  restaurants.  The  French  aristocracy  is  seen  on 
every  menu  card  in  Paris: — There's  a  certain  kind  of  lamb 
that's  named  after  me !  When,  I  ask,  when  will  you  keep 
up  with  the  times,  and  stop  pestering  me  with  your  worm- 
eaten  conventions  of  the  aristocratic  faubourg!  The  Mon- 
archy has  fallen  years  ago;  it  hasn't  existed  since  the 
Revolution!  Lace  collars  and  red  heels  and  sedan  chairs 
are  things  of  the  past!  And  we,  the  nobility,  called  the 
privileged  class  even  since  we  lost  our  privileges,  are  dead ! 
If  not  forever,  for  a  good  long  time!  To-day  everything 
is  changed 


THE  PRINCE  D'AUREC  103 

DUCHESS.  There  is  going  to  be  war,  anarchy,  a  second 
Terror ! 

PRINCE.  Possibly:  I  don't  know.  What  is  sure  is  that 
we  are  not  going  back  to  the  age  of  Saint-Louis.  To-day 
we  don't  believe  in  the  nobility.  You  may  have  your  king, 
if  you  like,  but  I  defy  you  to  consecrate  him!  Every  one 
would  laugh  at  you ! 

DUCHESS.  Be  silent,  my  son !  You  may  if  you  will  be 
of  your  time,  but  don't  ask  me  to  join  you.  To-morrow  I 
am  going  to  have  trustees  appointed  to  regulate  your  af- 
fairs and  your  income. 

PRINCE.     Would  you  do  that? 

DUCHESS.  Yes;  you  have  been  troublesome  enough  to 
me. 

PRINCE.     And  to  myself ! 

DUCHESS.  Ah !  If  you  ever  have  to  sell  this  house,  re- 
member that  my  estate  at  Recigny  and  my  house  in  the 
Rue  de  Varenne  are  at  the  disposal  of  you  and  your  wife. 

PRINCE.     Never !    I'd  rather  give  riding-lessons  ! 

DUCHESS.     Just  as  you  please. 

PRINCE.     Is  that  all  you  have  to  say? 

DUCHESS.     Yes. 

PRINCE.  Then  I  sha'n't  need  your  assistance:  I  shall 
sell  everything  I  have  to  the  highest  bidder,  and — I'm  go- 
ing to  sell  the  sword ! 

DUCHESS.     No!     You  wouldn't  have  the  heart ! 

PRINCE.  You'll  see!  "For  sale:  a  magnificent  sword, 
unique  specimen."  And  then  you  talk  of  trustees 

DUCHESS.     Dominique,  please 

PRINCE.     Very  well,  then,  pay. 

DUCHESS.  Oh,  you  wanted  to  force  me  to — !  You  at- 
tacked me  on  my  weakest  side — the  Piedoux  side !  Your 
scheme  won't  work  this  time,  my  child!  I  told  you  I 
wouldn't  pay  a  sou,  and  not  a  sou  will  I  pay!  Sell  what- 


104  HENRI  LAVEDAN 

ever  you  like — sword  and  all.  I  shall  be  bitterly  disap- 
pointed, but  I  sha'n't  be  sorry  for  you.  The  sword  will 
be  in  better  hands  than  yours,  wherever  it  goes.  You're 
no  son  of  mine,  you're  no  true  nobleman ! 

PRINCE.  [Interrupting  her  as  he  sees  DE  HORN  enter.] 
Ah,  Madame ! 

[Enter  DE  HORN. 

DE  HORN.  I  beg  your  pardon,  but  the  Princess  sent  me 
to  tell  you  that  the  guests  have  begun  to  arrive 

DUCHESS.  Really?  [She  goes  up-stage.]  Go  and  get 
ready,  son.  [Looking  over  the  balustrade.]  Yes,  there 
they  are ! 

DE  HORN.  [Excitedly,  to  the  PRINCE.]  Well,  what's 
the  matter? 

PRINCE.  My  mother  is  threatening  me  with  trustees! 
I  must  have  four  hundred  thousand  francs  by  to-morrow 
night,  and  I  haven't  a  sou. 

DE  HORN.  Please  don't  worry  about  it:  I  know  where 
you  can  get  that  money. 

PRINCE.     Oh?      [He  shakes  hands  with  DE  HORN.     The 
orchestra  outside  plays  the  Sardinian  anthem.] 
.   DUCHESS.      The     Queen!       Dominique!       There's    the 
Queen!      [She  goes  out.] 

PRINCE.  Very  well!  [Taking  DE  HORN  with  him;  as 
they  go  out.]  We're  coming! 

Curtain. 


ACT  III. 

[The  DUCHESS'  chateau,  Recigny.  A  large  room  with  a 
recessed  alcove  at  the  back,  giving  upon  a  long  gal- 
lery. There  are  doors  to  the  right  and  left;  many 


THE  PRINCE  D'AUREC  105 

chairs  of  various  kinds,  and  a  few  tables.  The  walls 
of  the  gallery  are  covered  with  family  portraits  (the 
men  are  in  armor,  some  dressed  as  lawyers  of  the 
"  Ancien  Regime,"  the  women  in  dresses  of  the  time, 
powdered  wigs,  etc.);  each  frame  bears  an  inscrip- 
tion on  a  plaque  at  the  bottom,  with  the  name  and 
motto  of  the  person  represented. — To  the  left  is  a 
high  Renaissance  fireplace  and  mantel. 

As  the  curtain  rises  MONTADE  and  a  servant  are  on 
the   stage.] 

SERVANT.  [To  MONTADE.]  When  will  Monsieur  have 
the  carriage? 

MONTADE.  Very  soon:  I  shall  let  you  know.  I'm  wait- 
ing for  M.  de  Horn.  [The  servant  goes  out.  MONTADE 
looks  at  the  portraits,  and  reads  the  mottoes  aloud:] 
"  Brevennes  de  Talais:  Jamais  en  arriere! — D'Aurec  le 
premier ! — Sur  mon  honneur ! — Defends-toi !  "  * 

[Enter  DE  HORN. 

DE  HORN.  I'm  ready.  Ah,  you're  looking  at  the  an- 
cestors! And  the  mottoes!  There  are  some  very  excellent 
ones ! 

MONTADE.  Don't  make  fun  of  them !  Those  ancestors 
were  very  good  people !  The  good  Duchess  wanted  her 
walls  covered  with  all  the  Talais  of  the  past !  She's  simply 
mad  about  the  aristocracy!  She'll  die  on  the  21st  of 
January ! 2 

DE  HORN.  Tell  me,  we're  not  going  for  a  long  drive, 
are  we? 

MONTADE.  You  needn't  fear,  the  Princess  won't  fly 
away !  You  are  tenacious ! 

1  Literally:  "  BreVennes  de  Talais:  Never  behind! — D'Aurec  the 
first !— On  my  honor  !— Defend  thyself !  " 
z  The  day  Louis  XVI  was  beheaded. 


106  HENRI  LAVEDAN 

DE  HORN.     Of  course! 

MONTADE.  Do  you  remember  that  conversation  of  ours, 
three  months  ago  at  our  friend  D'Aurec's,  the  night  of 
the  famous  fancy-dress  ball — just  before  the  deluge? 

DE  HORN.     Yes. 

MONTADE.  Unless  I  am  greatly  mistaken,  I  told  you, 
referring  to  a  plan  of  yours,  "  Take  care  or  you'll  be 
fooled?  "  I  am  afraid  I  was  not  a  bad  prophet. 

DE  HORN.  Why  ?  A  great  deal  has  happened  these  last 
three  months. 

MONTADE.  Oh,  certainly!  Thanks  to  you  the  Prince 
was  able  to  pay  his  debts,  after  his  mother  had  said  she 
would  have  nothing  to  do  with  him.  But  his  triumph  was 
short-lived.  Soon  after,  he  was  forced  to  sell  his  house, 
his  horses,  even  his  famous  sword,  to  satisfy  a  whole  army 
of  creditors.  By  the  way,  who  bought  that  sword? 

DE  HORN.     Some  Englishman,  I  believe. 

MONTADE.  The  Duchess  was  as  good  as  her  word:  she 
didn't  give  her  son  a  sou;  she  got  her  trustees!  So  the 
Prince  had  to  accept  her  hospitality  here  at  Recigny — 
Seine-et-Loire.  It  was  a  fearful  blow ! 

DE  HORN.  And  the  longer  it  lasts,  the  worse  humor  he's 
in! 

MONTADE.  Ha!  And  the  arrival  of  the  trustee,  M. 
Sorbier,  yesterday  hasn't  put  him  in  better  spirits! 

DE  HORN.     Who  is  this  M.  Sorbier? 

MONTADE.  An  old  Republican  lawyer,  a  friend  of  the 
Duchess!  He  seems  to  be  changing  the  lady's  ideas  in  a 
very  curious  way.  There's  only  one  person  who  doesn't 
seem  to  be  affected  by  what's  going  on:  the  Princess.  Ah, 
she  is  as  sparkling  as  ever,  and  pretty 

DE  HORN.     As  provoking! 

MONTADE.  And  as  impossible  of  access!  [Gesture  from 
DE  HORN.]  No  protest!  You're  not  one  step  nearer  your 


THE  PRINCE  D'AUREC  107 

goal  than  you  were  the  night  she  asked  you — for  your 
advice  on  the  Turkish  bonds!  The  more  I  examine  your 
position,  the  worse  it  looks.  Of  course,  I  realize  all  you've 
done,  all  the  money  you've  given — but  I  don't  see  what  you 
have  in  return.  The  husband  uses  your  money,  and  you 
are  not  yet  a  member  of  the  Jockey  Club!  The  wife  has 
not  been  bashful  either  in  asking  you 

DE  HORN.     I  shall  not  wait  long  before  asking  her ! 

MONTADE.  Oh,  otherwise  there  is  no  justice! — I'll  tell 
them  to  get  the  carriage  ready.  [He  goes  out.] 

[Enter  the  PRINCE. 

DE  HORN.  [As  he  sees  the  PRINCE  come  in.]  Ah,  here's 
my  man ! 

PRINCE.     Was  that  Montade  who  just  went  out? 

DE  HORN.  Yes.  Have  you  found  a  little  peace  of  mind 
yet? 

PRINCE.  Hardly.  I'm  getting  fearfully  tired  of  the  life 
here. 

DE  HORN.  Why,  what  is  there  so  tiresome  in  it?  The 
Duchess  does  everything  possible  for  you — she  has  only 
your  pleasure  and  comfort  at  heart. 

PRINCE.  I  admit  it.  She's  kind  because  she  is  victori- 
ous. The  moment  she  gained  her  point  she  was  simply 
charming.  She  might  have  begun  a  little  sooner ! 

DE  HORN.  You  have  very  little  to  complain  of;  there 
are  thousands  worse  off  than  you. 

PRINCE.  In  any  event,  I  need  a  change  of  air.  I'm 
going  away. 

DE  HORN.     Leave  Recigny? 

PRINCE.     Yes. 

DE  HORN.     Alone? 

PRINCE.     With  the  Princess. 

DE  HORN.     Soon? 

PRINCE.     Three  days,  at  the  latest! 


108  HENRI  LAVEDAN 

DE  HORN.     Where? 

PRINCE.     Hungary. 

DE  HORN.     Ah! 

PRINCE.  One  of  my  wife's  relatives  insists  on  our  spend- 
ing some  time  there! 

DE  HORN.     Do  you  intend  to  stay  very  long? 

PRINCE.     Four,  five — six  months,  at  the  outside. 

DE  HORN.     Good ! — Funny  idea,  to  go  to  Hungary ! 

PRINCE.  Why?  In  my  position,  anything  is  preferable 
to  staying  at  Recigny.  Do  you  think  it's  amusing  here? 

DE  HORN.      [Amiably.]      I  am  never  bored! 

PRINCE.  Thanks!  Very  kind  of  you!  But  your  posi- 
tion is  not  mine !  I'm  out  of  place.  Of  course,  I  have  all 
I  need,  but  not  a  sou  in  cash ! 

DE  HORN.     But  you  have  friends? 

PRINCE.  I  have  already  abused  their  friendship.  And 
really,  you  don't  intend  to  support  me,  do  you? 

DE  HORN.  I  know  you  would  never  allow  me  to.  And 
I  lack  the  necessary  funds.  I  have  a  fair  income,  but  to 
play  Monte  Cristo ! 

PRINCE.  There  is  no  necessity  for  your  doing  that. — 
But  this  trip — yes — that  is  a  necessity ! 

DE  HORN.     You  will  change  your  mind. 

PRINCE.     I  hardly  think  so. 

DE  HORN.     Yes,  you  will.    You  haven't  started  yet ! 

[Enter  a  servant. 

SERVANT.  [Announcing.]  The  carriage  for  the  gentle- 
men is  ready.  [The  servant  goes  out.] 

DE  HORN.  Montade  and  I  are  going  for  a  little  drive 
in  the  forest. 

PRINCE.  Take  Jojo  with  you,  will  you?  He's  a  good 
fellow,  but  he  gets  on  my  nerves. 

DE  HORN.  He  refused  our  invitation.  Won't  you  come 
with  us? 


THE  PRINCE  D'AUREC  109 

PRINCE.     No,  thanks ! 

DE  HORN.  [Aside.]  Montade  was  right,  I  must  come 
to  the  point  at  once.  [He  goes  out.] 

PRINCE.  My  mention  of  that  trip  seemed  to  upset  him. 
Can  he —  ?  I  shouldn't  be  a  bit  surprised — !  Nonsense ! 

[Enter  the   DUCHESS,   the   PRINCESS,   M.   SORBIER,   and 

MoNTREJEAU.] 

DUCHESS.  Dominique!  We  have  just  had  a  delightful 
walk  with  M.  Sorbier! 

PRINCE.     Indeed ! 

PRINCESS.     In  the  vegetable  garden! 

SORBIER.     We  saw  the  melons. 

MONTREJEAU.     They're  simply  immense,  overwhelming ! 

PRINCESS.  [To  her  husband.]  You  missed  a  great 
sight,  dear. 

DUCHESS.  I  should  think  so!  It's  so  much  better  to 
breathe  the  good  healthy  air  than  pass  your  time  sulking 
indoors. 

PRINCESS.     [To  her  husband.]     Take  that! 

PRINCE.     I'm  not  sulking,  I'm  bored! 

DUCHESS.     In  the  country?! 

PRINCESS.     You  don't  want  to  be  amused. 

MONTREJEAU.     What?     Lawns,  woods,  pastures?! 

DUCHESS.     Two  thousand  acres! 

MONTREJEAU.     Don't  you  care  for  that? 

PRINCE.     It's  all  too  green  for  me ! 

DUCHESS.     You're  bored  because  you  do  nothing. 

PRINCE.     Work !  ?     You're  always  harping  on  that. 

DUCHESS.  I  was  saying  to  Sorbier  not  five  minutes  ago: 
I  am  very  much  worried  for  your  future. 

MONTREJEAU.     Those  were  her  very  words. 

PRINCE.  [Much  put  out,  to  MONTREJEAU.]  This  is  my 
affair,  you  understand?  My  mother  and  Monsieur  are 
quite  sufficient ! 


110  HENRI  LAVEDAN 


MONTREJEAU.     A  word  to  the  wise- 


DUCHESS.  Here  you  are  safe  again,  with  no  more 
debts 

PRINCESS.     But  just  as  good  as  ruined. 

DUCHESS.  Who  pays  his  debts  grows  rich.  You  ought 
to  take  advantage  of  your  new  situation.  After  that  awful 
whirlpool  of  Parisian  society  from  which  I  saved  you,  you 
shouldn't  vegetate  here ;  waste  your  life 

MONTREJEAU.     Splendid ! 

DUCHESS.  Aren't  you  a  Duke  and  a  Prince?  Haven't 
you  among  your  ancestors  famous  and  honorable  men, 
among  them  a  Constable? 

PRINCE.      [His  eyes  on  the  floor.]      The  old ! 

DUCHESS.  Well,  when  you  have  all  those  trumps  in  your 
hand,  make  some  use  of  them.  It's  your  duty  to.  do  some- 
thing worthy! 

PRINCE.     I  have  no  ambition. 

SORBIER.     What,  at  your  age  ? 

DUCHESS.  He's  ridiculous !  I  have,  at  my  age — I,  a 
woman ! 

PRINCE.     You're  not  a  ruined  man! 

PRINCESS.     What  ambition  can  you  expect? 

DUCHESS.  A  boy  like  him  could  be  anything  he 
liked ! 

PRINCE.     President  of  the  Republic! 

DUCHESS.     Any  one  may! 

MONTREJEAU.     That's  so! 

PRINCESS.      [To  MONTREJEAU.]      Be  careful! 

DUCHESS.  [To  her  son.]  You  have  only  to  choose. 
Would  you  like  to  go  into  politics? 

PRINCE.     I  detest  politics  ! 

PRINCESS.     He  doesn't  know  a  thing  about  it! 

MONTREJEAU.     Neither  do  I. 

DUCHESS.      [To  her  son.]      Do  you  think  three-quarters 


THE  PRINCE  D'AUREC  111 

of  the  so-called  politicians  do?  Try  it,  make  a  way  for 
yourself:  you  have  a  brilliant  future. 

PRINCESS.     What? 

DUCHESS.  He's  popular.  Let  him  run  for  town-council- 
man or  for  Deputy! 

PRINCESS.     And  be  defeated! 

DUCHESS.  You  have  only  to  use  a  little  cash !  You 
can't  help  being  elected! 

PRINCE.     But  I  haven't  a  sou! 

DUCHESS.     I  shall  pay  everything! 

PRINCESS.     Then  will  you  do  away  with  his  trustee? 

MONTREJEAU.     Bravo,  Duchess!     Will  you ? 

SORBIER.     It  will  hardly  be  necessary,  I 

PRINCE.     What? 

DUCHESS.  Certainly!  A  Deputy  may  very  easily  know 
nothing  about  his  private  affairs  and  govern  those  of  the 
nation  very  well! 

PRINCE.     It's  usually  the  contrary  that  happens ! 

MONTREJEAU.  Poor  old  fellow!  [He  goes  back  to  the 
sofa.] 

DUCHESS.  Then  you  can  rise  to  be  Minister,  Speaker, 
Ambassador. 

PRINCESS.     Sultan ! 

DUCHESS.     There  is  nothing  you  can't  be ! 

MONTREJEAU.     My  head's  whirling  already! 

PRINCE.  This  is  all  very  pretty:  there  is  only  one 
obstacle ! 

DUCHESS.     What  ? 

PRINCE.  A  Prince  d'Aurec  ought  not  to  hold  office  under 
the  present  administration. 

PRINCESS.  [To  the  DUCHESS.]  Just  what  you've  said 
to  him  a  hundred  times ! 

DUCHESS.  Why,  the  Republicans  would  be  only  too 
glad  to  have  a  noble  1 


112  HENRI  LAVEDAN 

PRINCESS.  And  you,  with  your  ideas,  advise  him  to  give 
the  lie  to  all  our  principles ! 

DUCHESS.  Of  course — it's  M.  Sorbier's  fault !  He  has 
taught  me  a  lot.  And  then,  I  prefer  the  Republic  with 
Royalists  in  it  to  the  Monarchy  with  Republicans,  which 
would  certainly  be  the  case  if  we  should  ever  have  a 
king. 

SORBIER.     Which  will  never  happen! 

PRINCESS.  And  what  about  me  in  all  this?  Do  you 
think  I  want  to  be  the  wife  of  a  Republican  parvenu?  The 
well-known  Madame  d'Aurec,  of  the  Department  of  Agri- 
culture, or  Religious  Education?  Oh,  no! 

SORBIER.  But,  Madame,  the  Prince  complains  of  his 
inactivity.  Why  should  he  not  try  to  lead  an  entirely 
different  kind  of  life? 

DUCHESS.  Every  one  works  nowadays.  See,  there  are 
De  Horn  and  Montade ! 

PRINCESS.  Would  you  like  him  to  go  into  busi- 
ness? 

DUCHESS.     Oh,  no! 

PRINCESS.     Literature? 

DUCHESS.  Nor  that  either:  too  much  bohemianism!  Of 
course,  there  are  exceptions,  men  who  have  made  a  high 
place  for  themselves ! 

PRINCESS.     I  prefer  ours ! 

DUCHESS.     De  Horn  managed  to 

MONTREJEAU.     Get  made  a  baron. 

PRINCE.     Two  years  ago — at  least! 

DUCHESS.  And  he's  a  millionaire.  He's  one  who  has 
made  his  fortune !  And  Montade,  you  see,  is  received 
everywhere !  He  doesn't  remember  how  many  editions 
his  works  have  gone  through ! 

PRINCESS.     They're  always  out  of  print! 

DUCHESS.     He'll  be  an  Academician  before  you. 


THE  PRINCE  D'AUREC  113 

PRINCE.  [Excitedly.]  Ah,  so  you  want  me  to  belong 
to  the  Academy,  do  you? 

DUCHESS.     Why  not? 

MONTREJEAU.     The  green  coat  would  become  you.1 

PRINCE.  No;  it's  like  the  country:  too  green  for  my 
taste ! 

PRINCESS.     But  how  could  he  be  elected? 

DUCHESS.  He  comes  from  an  illustrious  family.  The 
Academy  is  a  Salon!  Dominique,  you  have  perfect  man- 
ners !  You'd  cut  a  fine  figure  there ! 

PRINCESS.  But  one  must  at  least  have  written  some- 
thing, no  matter  how  little ! 

DUCHESS.  What  about  our  ancestors'  correspondence? 
Why  do  we  leave  it  lying  about?  The  library  here  is  full 
of  wonderful  old  manuscripts!  No  one's  ever  seen  them! 
Dominique  can  just  copy  what  he  likes!  He  could  write 
a  beautiful  book,  as  good  as  another! 

PRINCE.  [Ironically.]  The  Marshal  de  Talais,  after 
unpublished  documents ! 

MONTREJEAU.     With  an  engraved  portrait! 

PRINCESS.     And  a  fac-simile  autograph! 

PRINCE.     That's  all  I  have  to  do ! 

DUCHESS.     When  will  you  get  to  work? 

PRINCE.     Do  you  mean  it? 

DUCHESS.  Well,  if  you  don't  want  to  go  into  poli- 
tics  ? 

PRINCE.     Certainly  not !     Not  politics  or 

DUCHESS.  Then  decide  on  some  profession:  architec- 
ture, medicine 

PRINCESS.  The  Prince  d'Aurec  a  doctor !  I  could  never 
look  my  husband  in  the  face  again ! 

1  The  official  costume  of  members  of  the  French  Academy  is  a 
dress  coat  trimmed  with  green  braid. 


114  HENRI  LAVEDAN 

DUCHESS.  You're  so  delicate!  You'd  think  I'd  sug- 
gested a  crime !  We'll  come  to  that  before  long ! 

SORBIER.  Of  course:  our  children  will  consider  it  quite 
a  matter  of  course  to  see  counts  who  are  notaries,  marquis' 
who  are  lawyers,  viscounts  who  are  druggists,  and  dukes — 
doctors !  The  aristocracy  must  learn  to  work  like  ordinary 
mortals,  unless  it  wants  to  disappear  from  the  face  of 
the  earth! 

DUCHESS.     That's  good  common  sense! 

PRINCE.  But  the  times  are  not  yet  ripe  for  the  reforms 
M.  Sorbier  speaks  of.  I  want  to  hear  nothing  more  about 
my  entering  a  profession.  I  have  one  now. 

DUCHESS.     Laziness ! 

PRINCE.     Precisely:  I  am  a  gentleman! 

DUCHESS.     That's  not  much. 

PRINCE.     I  think  it  is. 

PRINCESS.  What?  Think  of  the  presumption  on  his  part 
in  trying  to  improve  upon  his  past,  to  make  his  position, 
one  of  the  finest  and  most  honorable  in  the  land,  one  jot 
better !  What  more  ought  he  to  do  than  lend  some  added 
luster  to  his  name,  spend  his  time  living  up  to  his  position, 
in  the  midst  of  the  world  of  fashion,  making  triumphal 
entries  into  the  Gotha  of  stylish  functions,  going  about  in 
the  various  clubs  of  Europe,  and  making  a  name  for  him- 
self by  means  of  his  personal  accomplishments,  which  are 
the  despair  of  his  equals?  In  short,  he  should  reflect  all 
that  is  best,  all  that  is  noble,  all  that  his  ancestors  have 
bequeathed  to  him !  Do  you,  his  mother,  consider  that  "  not 
much  " !  ?  Really,  you  are  difficult  to  please !  What  do 
you  want,  then? 

DUCHESS.     Deeds,  worthy  and  noble  actions! 

PRINCE.     Bouvines  would  suit  mother.1 

1  A  famous  victory  won  by  Philippe-Auguste. 


THE  PRINCE  D'AUREC  115 

DUCHESS.  [Reading  the  mottoes  on  the  walls.]  "  Jamais 
en  arriere !  D'Aurec  le  premier!  " 

MONTREJEAU.  [Likewise  reading  mottoes.]  "  Montre- 
jeau  plus  haut !  "  1 

PRINCESS.  You  would  have  been  just  the  wife  for  Don 
Quixote ! 

DUCHESS.  [To  her  son.]  What  will  my  lazy  gentleman 
do?  What  is  his  duty? 

PRINCE.  My  wife  has  told  you:  to  set  a  standard  in 
taste,  invent  a  new  clever  saying — a  perfume,  a  shade — set 
in  circulation  a  new  cravat,  a  distinctive  hat,  find  a  new 
method  of  riding,  make  vice  as  attractive  as  the  ridicule 
of  virtue;  revolt  against  the  vulgar  diamond  of  the  Jew, 
the  sham  art  bronzes  of  the  bourgeois,  the  hardware  of  the 
Peruvian !  That  is  the  only  occupation  worthy  of  a  gen- 
tleman nowadays ! 

DUCHESS.  I  may  be  very  narrow,  but  I  have  always 
thought  there  were  others! 

PRINCE.  [Rising.]  I  don't  want  to  hear  any  more! 
I'm  going! 

SORBIER.     Please,  now — Prince ! — Duchess ! 

DUCHESS.      [To  her  son.]     Why  are  you  angry? 

PRINCE.  [Drily.]  Now,  Mother!  You  inflicted  a 
trustee  on  me,  forced  me  to  live  on  your  hospitality  here 
in  the  country  to  suffer  deep  humiliation.  For  the  time  be- 
ing I  can  only  resign  myself,  but  I  tell  you  plainly,  there 
is  one  thing  you  will  never  be  able  to  do:  make  me  appear 
ridiculous.  I  really  must  have  a  few  minutes  to  recuperate 
after  all  this  talk!  I'm  going  to  take  a  look  at  your 
melons. 

PRINCESS.  So  am  I.  [The  PRINCE  and  PRINCESS  go 
out.] 

1  Literally:  "Montrejeau  higher!" 


116  HENRI  LAVEDAN 

MONTREJEAU.  [Following  them.]  Come,  cousin,  don't 
get  excited! 

DUCHESS.  [Very  downcast.}  It's  very  discouraging !  I 
can't  do  a  thing  with  him !  What  would  you  do  if  you 
were  in  my  place? 

SORBIER.  I  should  try  kindness;  I  should  drop  the 
trustee. 

DUCHESS.     Never! 

SORBIER.  Now  that  the  moral  effect  has  been  made  and 
your  authority  well  established 

DUCHESS.  Don't  ask  me  to  do  that.  As  long  as  I  live — 
Dominique  shall  have  a  trustee. 

SORBIER.     But   I 

DUCHESS.  No,  no,  you  can't  persuade  me.  I  have  too 
many  reasons. 

SORBIER.     What  reasons?    Tell  me. 

DUCHESS.  You  ask  me  what  reasons?  You,  the  faith- 
ful friend  to  whom  all  my  troubles  are  known?  Just  re- 
member what  my  life  was  as  a  girl  of  eighteen,  when  you 
used  to  come  and  have  supper  Sunday  nights  with  Papa 
and  me ! 

SORBIER.     You  had  just  come  back  from  Sacre  Coeur.1 

DUCHESS.  And  at  that  time  my  only  love,  my  one  idea 
was 

SORBIER.     I  remember:  the  nobility! 

DUCHESS.  When  any  one  mentioned  any  of  the  famous 
heroes  of  French  history  in  my  presence,  whenever  I  read 
about  the  deeds  of  old,  my  heart  beat  at  a  terrible  rate ! 
The  nobles!  In  my  eyes  they  were  something  high  above 
us,  something  apart,  by  reason  of  their  better  deeds  and 
thoughts  and  aspirations!  They  were  for  me  the  essence 
of  the  good  qualities  of  the  whole  race.  This  superior 
race  was  in  duty  bound  to  carry  on  the  traditions  of  the 
1  A  convent. 


THE  PRINCE  D'AUREC  117 

past;  each  member  was  part  of  a  long  line  of  ancestors,  and 
it  was  his  sole  object  in  life  to  hand  down  intact  to  his 
son  the  unstained  family  name.  I  said  to  myself:  "  If  by 
any  chance  I  ever  make  a  place  for  myself  in  that  closed 
caste,  I,  Virginie  Piedoux,  will  do  my  best  to  honor  it." — 
What  a  dream !  The  dream  came  true,  I  do  belong  to  the 
class,  and  now  I  know  it  is  less  important  than  my  own. 
I'm  punished ! 

SORBIER.     Come,  now ! 

DUCHESS.  I  have  suffered  enough  because  of  the  no- 
bility! I  brought  it  my  money  and  my  bourgeois  virtues, 
it  brought  me  its  hereditary  vices  and  its  soiled  'scutcheon ! 
I  got  no  happiness  out  of  it,  from  my  husband  or  my  son. 
There  are  times  even  when  I  am  glad  I  am  not  a  grand- 
mother; a  grandson  would  have  had  too  many  chances  to 
inherit  his  father's  vices — that's  another  of  the  disillusions 
of  my  old  age !  My  last  days  aren't  happy ! 

SORBIER.     Nonsense 

DUCHESS.  No,  they  aren't.  When  I  think  of  the  dif- 
ferent life  I  might  have  lived  if  I  had  not  been  so  obstinate 
and  blind — oh,  the  marriages  I  have  refused! 

SORBIER.      [Pensively.]      Yes! 

DUCHESS.     I  have  regretted  a  hundred  times ! 

SORBIER.      [Ill  at  ease.]      Please! 

DUCHESS.  Why  not  speak  of  it?  It  will  make  my  life 
easier  for  a  little !  I  am  so  sorry  I  refused  you  when 
you  asked  for  my  hand — from  my  father — thirty-five  years 
ago! 

SORBIER.     Thirty-six. 

DUCHESS.  How  old  we're  getting!  You  were  an  attor- 
ney then,  a  simple  attorney,  beginning  your  legal  career. 
Would  I  consent  to  become  merely  Madame  Sorbier?  Noth- 
ing of  the  sort,  I  would  be  Countess,  Marquise,  Duchess! 
Ah,  if  I  had  only  been  willing  to  be  the  wife  of  M.  Sorbier, 


118  HENRI  LAVEDAN 

formerly  Judge  of  the  Court  of  Appeals,  an  upright  and 
honorable  man,  instead  of  the  Duchess  de  Talais,  I 
shouldn't  be  crying  over  my  wasted  life !  I  should  have 
had  fine  children  who  were  not  ashamed  of  their  mother, 
nor  should  I  be  ashamed  of  them;  I  should  not  belong  to 
the  Faubourg,  the  servants  would  not  announce,  "  Madame 
la  duchesse,  the  dinner  is  served."  But  Madame  Sorbier 
would  have  been  a  happy  woman !  Forgive  me,  I  sinned 
through  pride.  God  has  punished  me  severely  and  de- 
graded me  in  giving  me  my  son,  who  represents  to  me 
the  whole  of  that  nobility  I  used  to  sigh  for !  Forgive 


me 


SORBIER.     I  have  no  right  to  forgive  you;   I  too  have 
often  thought  the  way  you  did. — Let's  drop  the  subject! 

[The  DUCHESS  rises,  and  prepares  to  go  out. 

SORBIER.     Where  are  you  going? 

DUCHESS.     To  visit  my  poor. 

SORBIER.     Let  me  go  with  you. 

DUCHESS.     They're   so  much  more  interesting  than  we 
are! 

[Enter  DE  HORN. 

DUCHESS.     Back  so  soon,  Monsieur? 

DE  HORN.     Yes,  Duchess. 

DUCHESS.     Did  you  have  a  pleasant  ride? 

DE  HORN.     Delightful. 

SORBIER.     What  have  you  done  with  M.  Montade? 

DE  HORN.     I   left  him  in  his   room,  where   he   is   de- 
scribing the  forest. 

DUCHESS.     These  men  of  letters !     They  must  always  be 
describing  something! 

DE  HORN.     [Bowing.]     Duchess ! 

[The  DUCHESS  and  SORBIER  go  out. 

DE  HORN.     Fiction  may  satisfy  Montade,  it  doesn't  suffice 
for  me!     [He  picks  up  a  photograph  of  the  PRINCESS  from 


THE  PRINCE  D'AUREC  119 

the  table.]     Here  is  my  next  novel!     In  a  short  while  the 
novel  will  have  been  lived ! 

[The  PRINCESS  enters  and  looks  at  him. 

PRINCESS.     What  are  you  doing? 

DE  HORN.  [At  first  a  little  surprised.]  Oil,  Princess! 
I  was  admiring! 

PRINCESS.     It  was  what  I  should  call  close  admiration! 

DE  HORN.     Do  you  object  to  that? 

PRINCESS.     Admire,  but  don't  touch ! 

DE  HORN.  But  a  picture!  That's  certainly  Platonic 
enough. 

PRINCESS.  Plato  himself  was  a  hypocrite.  Put 
the  picture  back  on  the  table,  and  let  us  keep  our 
distance. 

DE  HORN.     I  want  to  bring  us  closer  together ! 

PRINCESS.     You  are  wasting  your  time. 

DE  HORN.     So  that  we  may  come  the  closer,  afterward ! 

PRINCESS.  Good! — It's  beautiful  weather,  go  out  and 
enjoy  it! 

DE  HORN.     Why? 

PRINCESS.  Because  I  feel  trouble  in  the  air:  I  have 
presentiments ! 

DE  HORN.     Good !     Then  I  may  begin ! 

PRINCESS.     No ! 

DE  HORN.  You  see  at  least,  don't  you,  that  I  have  a 
confession  to  make? 

PRINCESS.  And  you  are  put  out  because  I  don't  ask 
you  what?  I'm  not  in  the  least  curious. 

DE  HORN.  So  much  the  worse:  I  am  indiscreet. — I  love 
you! 

PRINCESS.     Is  it  worth  while  to  ring  for  a  servant? 

DE  HORN.  I  love  you  deeply,  with  all  my  power,  with 
all  my  heart! 

PRINCESS.     Of  course ! 


120  HENRI  LAVEDAN 

DE  HORN.     For  six  months  I've  been  tortured 

PRINCESS.     You're  better  now? 

DE  HORN.  Don't  make  fun  of  me!  Be  good,  tell  me 
I  have  some  hope,  that  perhaps  some  day ! 

PRINCESS.  Or  some  night — "  Be  good  " !  Oh,  have  you 
lost  your  mind  ?  Seriously,  did  you  imagine  for  one  second, 
that  I  was  going  to  be  your  mistress? 

DE  HORN.  I  imagined  that  that  would  be  the  greatest 
joy  of  my  life! 

PRINCESS.  And  the  greatest  honor  of  mine ! !  Think  for 
one  minute,  how  could  you  be  my  lover? 

DE  HORN.  You  have  found  me  worthy  of  your  friend- 
ship. 

PRINCESS.     How  do  you  know  that? 

DE  HORN.     I  seem  to  remember  hearing  you  say  so? 

PRINCESS.  A  fine  reason  that!  Do  you  always  tell  the 
truth? 

DE  HORN.  Up  to  now,  I  have  been  treated  as  an  inti- 
mate friend  of  the  family,  I  have  been  shown  special  con- 
sideration  

PRINCESS.  And  therefore  you  conclude  "  That  little 
Princess — mm. — ah!  One  of  these  days,  I'll  have  only  to 
open  my  arms  and  she  will  fall  into  them!  "  Well,  Mon- 
sieur, you  have  aimed  a  little  too  high ! 

DE  HORN.  Madame,  you  would  not  be  the  first  great 
lady  who  has  stooped ! 

PRINCESS.  That  is  very  true,  but  when  we  do  stoop,  we 
choose ! 

DE  HORN.  And  if  I  am  so  low  that  you  please  to  make 
me  feel  my  position,  who  can  blame  me  if  I  aspire  to  you? 
What  finer  ambition  could  I  have?  I'm  a  millionaire, 
blase,  hard  to  please!  There  is  nothing  in  the  world  but 
you  to  desire !  I  have  everything ! 

PRINCESS.     Except 


THE  PRINCE  D'AUREC  121 

DE  HORN.  Except  everything !  You ! !  And  I  feel  as  if 
I  had  nothing! 

PRINCESS.     Surely  you  exaggerate ! 

DE  HORN.  You  are  all  I  have  ever  wanted,  dreamed 
of! 

PRINCESS.     Most  flattered,  I'm  sure! 

DE  HORN.  I  think  it  is  a  punishment  for  all  my 
wealth  that  I  should  love  a  woman  who  scorns  and  despises 
me !  I  must  be  terribly  in  love  with  you,  your  qualities,  and 
your  race 

PRINCESS.     Everything  that  you  haven't! 

DE  HORN.  I  know  it;  and  that  is  why  I  love  you.  I 
don't  need  you  to  tell  me  that  you  are  a  superior  being ;  I  am 
the  first  to  admit  it.  It  is  the  only  thing  I  have  ever  been 
forced  to  admit.  If  I  hadn't  been  born  what  I  am,  I  should 
have  liked  to  belong  to  your  class! 

PRINCESS.     No  false  modesty! 

DE  HORN.     Now  you  are  laughing  at  me! 

PRINCESS.     I  was  never  more  serious. 

DE  HORN.     You  are  right. — After  all,  what  do  I  want? 

PRINCESS.     I  think  I  know. 

DE  HORN.     Your  happiness. 

PRINCESS.     That's  rather  a  big  word. 

DE  HORN.  You  don't  mean  to  say  you  are  quite  happy 
now? 

PRINCESS.     That  is  a  question  no  one  has  ever  asked  me. 

DE  HORN.     Not  even  your  husband? 

PRINCESS.  Oh,  let's  leave  my  husband  out  of  the  ques- 
tion! 

DE  HORN.     You  defend  him? 

PRINCESS.     Of  course  I  defend  him! 

DE  HORN.  As  if  he  were  anything  to  be  proud  of:  the 
model  husband ! 

PRINCESS.     He  has  always  been  faithful  to  me. 


122  HENRI  LAVE  DAN 

DE  HORN.  Ha!  He  has  done  things  a  hundred  times 
worse !  Ruined  you,  made  you  share  his  exile,  his  humilia- 
tion ! 

PRINCESS.  It  is  the  wife's  duty  to  remain  with  her  hus- 
band.— How  does  that  concern  you,  by  the  way? 

DE  HORN.  It  gives  me  great  pain,  because  I  love 
you 

PRINCESS.     You    may    continue    to    suffer,    then,    Mon- 


sieur 


DE  HORN.  I  suffer  to  see  you  as  you  are !  You  ought  to 
be  in  a  position  where  your  beauty  and  your  accomplish- 
ments— are  appreciated — you  deserve  a  place 

PRINCESS.  You  certainly  have  one  which  you  don't 
deserve ! 

DE  HORN.  Blame  me,  I  don't  object!  You  can't  pre- 
vent my  loving  you  as  I  have !  You  weren't  born  to  live  in 
the  country  all  your  life,  without  even  a  house  of  your  own ! 
Why  should  you  be  the  victim  of  crimes  you  have  not  com- 
mitted? Are  you  going  to  live  here,  shut  up  with  your 
mother-in-law  like  a  dethroned  queen,  with  a  man  who  is 
bankrupt,  who  has  to  have  a  trustee?  You  have  a  kingdom 
to  rule  over  in  Paris,  a  kingdom  you  once  held  yourself, 
that  your  husband  caused  you  to  lose — come,  I  will  give  it 
back  to  you! 

PRINCESS.     Suggest  that  to  him! 

DE  HORN.  Little  he  thinks  of  you!  Mademoiselle  de 
Varaucourt,  descendant  of  Richelieu,  has  now  been  reduced 
to  the  position  of  wife  of  a  bankrupt  country  squire! 
Pretty,  isn't  it?  I  have  more  pride  in  you  than  he  has, 
I  think  more  of  your  social  prestige  than  your  husband ! 
With  me  at  least  money  would  flow  again  in  the  house  he 
has  raided  and  despoiled;  you  can  spend  what  you  like: 
you  will  always  have  plenty.  There'll  not  be  enough  room 
in  the  house  to  keep  it  all !  Come  with  me  and  let  me  re- 


THE  PRINCE  D'AUREC  123 

establish  you  where  you  belong!  Be  a  Princess  again, 
and  not  what  you  now  are! 

PRINCESS.     That  will  do ! 

DE  HORN.  No,  that  will  not  do!  You  know  life  well 
enough  to  realize  that  that  will  not  do — in  these  times! 

PRINCESS.  I  insist,  Monsieur !  And  the  proof  is  that  I 
ask  you  to  leave  immediately!  Go  away  and  don't  come 
back:  I  don't  want  to  see  you  again! 

DE  HORN.     Oh! 

PRINCESS.     I  don't  want  anything  from  you. 

DE  HORN.     You  haven't  always  felt  that  way ! 

PRINCESS.     I  beg  your  pardon? 

DE  HORN.     Nothing.     Don't  let  me  remind  you! 

PRINCESS.     Ah,  your  services  rendered! 

DE  HORN.     Of  course,  my  services ! 

PRINCESS.  Ha !  at  last !  I  was  foolish  to  think  that  these 
were  merely  friendly  assistances !  They  were  the  basest  of 
calculations ! 

DE  HORN.  There's  little  difference.  In  accepting  them 
you  forfeited  the  right  to  judge  me! 

PRINCESS.  That's  true!  How  shameful!  And  what  a 
lesson ! 

DE  HORN.     What  a  lesson  for  me  too ! 

PRINCESS.     Now  the  real  De  Horn  appears! 

DE  HORN.  Your  fault!  I  was  only  too  glad  to  be  of 
any  assistance  to  you  both,  but  since 

PRINCESS.     Does  my  husband  owe  you  money  too? 

DE  HORN.  A  mere  trifle !  Your  surprise  is  really  very 
good! 

PRINCESS.  That  will  do,  Monsieur!  I  cannot  allow 
you  to  insult  me! 

DE  HORN.     Merely  interest  on  my  money ! 

PRINCESS.  My  husband  will  see  that  the  capital  is  re- 
turned to  you. 


124  HENRI  LAVEDAN 

DE  HORN.     Are  you  going  to  tell  him? 

PRINCESS.     Within  five  minutes. 

DE  HORN.  Will  you  tell  him  that  I  have  bought  your 
clothes  for  you? 

PRINCESS.     Yes,  Monsieur. 

DE  HORN.     He  will  be  delighted ! 

PRINCESS.     I  can't  say  as  much  for  you ! 

DE  HORN.  Oh,  I  have  nothing  to  fear  from  him.  How 
about  you? 

PRINCESS.     He  will  understand  me:  we  are  equals. 

DE  HORN.     You  are — equals! 

PRINCESS.     Insolent  Jew ! 

[Enter  the  PRINCE,  hearing  the  PRINCESS'S  last  words. 

PRINCE.     What's  the  matter? 

PRINCESS.  Monsieur  has  just  asked  me  to  become  his 
mistress. 

PRINCE.     Indeed ! 

PRINCESS.  I  offered  a  few  objections,  and  then  he  spoke 
something  about  having  rendered  us  some  services.  Ask 
him,  he  will  give  you  all  the  necessary  details. 

[She  goes  out. 

PRINCE.     Is  that  true,  Monsieur? 

DE  HORN.     What,  Monsieur? 

PRINCE.     What  the  Princess  just  said? 

DE  HORN.  You  ought  to  be  the  first  to  know  that  she 
never  lies! 

PRINCE.     You  will  regret  it. 

DE  HORN.     Why? 

PRINCE.     Because  I  am  going  to  ask  you  to  leave. 

DE  HORN.     You  see,  I  am  still  here. 

PRINCE.     You  will  not  be  long. 

DE  HORN.     Without  giving  me  a  reason? 

PRINCE.     Yes. 

DE  HORN.     I'm  good  enough  to  fight  a  duel  with  any  one. 


THE  PRINCE  D'AUREC  125 

PRINCE.  I'm  sorry,  but  I'm  not  "  any  one."  I  have 
honored  you  by  my  company,  I  have  received  you  as  an  in- 
timate friend  in  my  family,  you  have  made  free  with  us 
and  our  acquaintances,  patronized  the  same  tailor  as  I, 
until  you  have  forgotten  that  a  great  gulf  separates  us !  I 
have  even  shown  myself  in  public  with  you,  I  have  ridden 
with  you  in  your  own  carriages,  and  now  you  talk  about 
your  damned  money 

DE  HORN.  I  well  recall  how  you  swooped  down  on  that 
damned  money! 

PRINCE.  My  hands  were  less  soiled  in  taking  than  yours 
in  gaining  it!  You  thought  you  would  take  my  wife  as  an 
indemnity !  You  considered  that  the  favors  of  a  Princess 
d'Aurec  hardly  recompensed  you!  Whom  do  you  think  we 
are,  Monsieur  ? 

DE  HORN.  You  are  members  of  an  envious,  cold- 
blooded, and  selfish  class,  which  flatters  in  order  to  exploit 
us.  You  believe  you  have  the  right  to  assume  the  air  of  a 
family  portrait  with  us  simply  because  our  ancestors  didn't 
knock  down  a  marquisate  by  playing  the  devil  with  the 
king! 

PRINCE.  By  the  shedding  of  blood,  Monsieur,  in 
battles ! 

DE  HORN.  You  are  the  Jews,  you — if  you  use  the  word 
as  a  term  of  contempt!  Count  What's-his-Name  sells  his 
name  to  a  rich  baker  whose  son  he  adopts !  The  grand- 
daughter of  a  great  lord  is  only  too  glad  to  marry  the  son  of 
a  dry-goods  merchant  around  the  corner!  Chambersac  is 
willing  to  take  commissions  from  the  tailor,  the  upholsterer, 
and  the  horse-dealer!  You  are  the  Jews,  and  I  say  that 
before  long  you  will  all  be  in  the  usury  business ! 

PRINCE.  The  aristocrat  may  some  day  be  a  Jew,  but  the 
Jew  will  never  be  an  aristocrat! 

DE  HORN.     Nonsense,    we    lead    the    world    in    many 


126  HENRI  LAVEDAN 

branches,  and  I  can  prove  it !  But  that's  not  what  we're 
discussing ! 

PRINCE.     No! 

DE  HORN.  I'm  not  going  to  put  up  with  your  im- 
pudence and  I'm  not  afraid  of  your  threats.  You  really  are 
surprising!  You  think  you  can  caress  and  flatter  us  and 
catch  us  in  your  traps,  empty  our  purses  whenever  you 
like,  and  then  throw  us  aside  like  a  worn-out  coat — as  soon 
as  you're  through  with  us !  And  then  when  we  demand  some 
reparation — No,  you're  mistaken  this  time.  You've  refused 
me  your  club,  and  as  for  the  Princess ! 

PRINCE.     Cur ! 

DE  HORN.  And  insult  into  the  bargain!  No,  I'm  not 
getting  my  money's  worth ! 

PRINCE.  Take  care,  or  you'll  get  more  than  you're  bar- 
gaining for ! 

DE  HORN.  You  owe  me  money.  You're  under  obliga- 
tions to  me. 

PRINCE.  I  owe  you  money,  but  I  am  not  under  obliga- 
tions to  you. 

DE  HORN.  You  and  your  wife  are  under  obligations 
to  me. 

PRINCE.     My  wife?     You  lie! 

DE  HORN.  You  are  mistaken.  [He  takes  a  note-book 
from  his  pocket  and  opens  it.]  "  Madame  le  princesse 
d'Aurec  debtor,  three  hundred  thousand  francs."  [The 
PRINCE  is  astounded.]  She  will  not  deny  it — I  loaned  her 
at  various  times.  [Reading.]  "  May  5,  1889,  thirty  thou- 
sand; August  17,  twenty- five  thousand;  January  20,  1890, 
twenty-five;  March  11,  twenty-five;  and  two  months  ago, 
two  hundred  thousand — ."  Ah,  these  new  ball  gowns  are 
very  dear!  Add  to  this  the  four  hundred  thousand  you 
owe  me:  total,  seven  hundred  thousand  francs.  You  have 
nothing  to  say?  The  moment  you  wish  to  discharge  me  like 


THE  PRINCE  D'AUREC  127 

a  servant,  I  ask  for  my  wages.  Have  you  seven  hundred 
thousand  francs?  No.  I  shall  not  leave  until  I  have  my 
money ! 

PRINCE.      [White    with    anger,   as    he    raises   his   arm.] 

You—!!     Take  care,  or  I'll ! 

DE  HORN.  Violence  will  not  pay  your  debts,  Monsieur. 
I  have  taken  precautions,  and  I  hold  the  reins  tight  in  my 
hands.  There  is  no  use  becoming  excited.  Get  my  money 
for  me:  I'll  wait. 

[The  PRINCE  stands  mute  with  rage  and  impotence.  He 
walks  back  and  forth  twisting  his  moustache,  casting 
sidelong  glances  from  time  to  time  at  DE  HORN.  The 
PRINCE  rings  the  bell,  and  a  servant  enters  a  moment 
later.] 

JOSEPH.     Monsieur  le  prince? 

PRINCE.  Nothing,  you  may  go.  [The  servant  goes  out.] 
DE  HORN.  You  thought  you  would  throw  me  out,  but  at 
the  last  moment  you  find  you  haven't  the  courage.  You're 
very  wise. — You  don't  see  a  way  out  of  the  difficulty  ?  I  can 
sympathize  with  you ;  it's  not  pretty !  You  have  nothing 
yourself,  and  your  wife?  Ruined  by  you.  Your  mother? 
She  will  certainly  not  help  you,  she  hasn't  yet  digested  the 

Constable's  sword 

PRINCE.     I  give  you  my  word  she  will  pay  you. 

[He  rises  and  rings  the  bell  again. 

DE  HORN.  I  should  like  to  see  her;  you've  been  ring- 
ing that  bell  a  good  deal ! 

[Enter  a  servant. 

PRINCE.  Ask  the  Duchess  and  the  Princess  to  come  here 
at  once,  as  well  as  M.  Sorbier  and  M.  Montade. 

[The  servant  goes  out. 
DE  HORN.     Every  one? 
PRINCE.     Every  one. 
DE  HORN.     A  pleasure  party! 


128  HENRI  LAVEDAN 

PRINCE.     Or  an  execution. 
[Enter  the  DUCHESS,  the  PRINCESS,  SORBIER,  and  MONTADE. 

PRINCE.     Mother 

DUCHESS.  Never  mind:  Therese  has  told  me  everything. 
[To  DE  HORN.]  Monsieur,  if  you  will  be  good  enough  to 
go  to  your  room,  you  will  find  your  baggage  packed.  M. 
Bertin,  who  has  received  instructions  from  me,  is  waiting 
for  you  below.  He  will  take  the  same  train  as  you  do,  the 
Paris  express,  leaving  at  five  fifty-eight.  To-morrow  morn- 
ing you  will  be  paid. 
DE  HORN.  Very  well. 

[He  stays  for  a  moment,  as   if  about   to  say  some- 
thing. 

SORBIER.     [Approaching  him.]      I  advise  you  to  go,  Mon- 
sieur, you  have  nothing  more  to  do  here. 

DE  HORN.      [Going.]     Oh,  by  the  way,  the  Constable's 
sword  is  in  my  collection! 

[The  PRINCE  is  about  to  follow  him,  but  his  mother 

prevents   him    with   a  gesture. 
DUCHESS.     Dominique ! 

[DE  HORN  goes  out  in  silence. 
[The  PRINCE  sits  down,  angry  and  disgusted,  his  head 

in  his  hands.     He  bursts  into  sobs. 
MONTADE.      [In  an  undertone.]      Nervous  let-down. 
SORBIER.      [Aside  to  the  DUCHESS.]      He  is  yours  now; 
strike  while  the  iron  is  hot. 

PRINCESS.      [To    her    husband.]      Thank    your    mother! 
She  deserves  it! 

DUCHESS.      [Going  to  the  PRINCE.]     Are  you  satisfied 
with  me?     Was  I  really  the  Duchess  de  Talais? 
PRINCE.     Yes.     You  are  noble,  not  I. 
DUCHESS.     When  will  you  be? 

PRINCE.     I  shall  never  be  the  man  you  want  me  to  be ! 
To-day  I  can  only  promise  you  one  thing:  to  live  the  life 


THE  PRINCE  D'AUREC  129 

of  an  honest  man,  and  when  the  time  comes,  to  die  like  a 
prince. 

DUCHESS.     War?    Will  you  give  up  your  life  in  war? 

MONTADE.      [Suavely  polite.]     As  would  any  of  us. 

PRINCE.  [Drawing  himself  up  to  his  full  height,  and 
with  conscious  pride.]  There  is  a  certain  way  of  do- 
ing it ! 

Curtain. 


THE  PARDON 

A  Comedy  in  Three  Acts 

By 
JULES  LEMAITRE 

Translated  by 
BARRETT  H.  CLARK 

Presented  for  the  first  time  at  Paris,  February  11,  1895, 
at  the  Comedie  Fran9aise 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED 

GEORGES 
SUZANNE 
THERESE 

The  action  takes  place  in  a  French  manufacturing  town. 


THE  PARDON 

ACT  I. 

[A  parlor,  used  as  an  office.     Entrances  up-stage  to  the 
center,  the  right,  and  left.] 

THERESE.      [Entering  center.]     Come  here. 

SUZANNE.     [Entering  after  THKRESE.]      I'm  afraid. 

THERESE.  I  tell  you  there  is  no  one  here !  Your  hus- 
band is  still  at  work,  and  I  managed  to  get  rid  of  the  serv- 
ants. Because — don't  you  want  me  to? — I  have  become 
used — oh,  with  his  authorization  and  by  his  express  wishes ! 
— to  looking  after  his  house. 

SUZANNE.     Oh,  my  dear  Therese! 

THERESE.  I  had  to.  He  was  utterly  helpless,  at  his 
wits'  end,  when  he  came  here  two  weeks  ago! 

SUZANNE.     How  grateful  I  am  to  you  and  your  husband ! 

THERESE.  Don't  thank  me;  it  was  only  natural. 
Georges  couldn't  remain  there — for  a  hundred  reasons — 
after  that  scandal.  My  husband  had  the  good  luck  to 
offer  him  at  once  an  excellent  position.  He  let  him  know 
of  it,  and  there  was  no  cause  for  regret.  You  can't  imagine 
what  a  fine  place  Georges  made  for  himself  at  the  factory, 
the  moment  he  came.  His  invention  did  wonders  for  him. 
It  seems  your  husband  is  a  real  person. 

SUZANNE.  [Simply.]  Oh,  yes ! — But  what  do  they  say 
about  me?  Are  you  sure  nothing  is  known? 

THERESE.  Absolutely  sure.  Georges  spread  the  story 
that  you  were  in  the  country,  visiting  your  mother,  for 

133 


134  JULES  LEMAITRE 

your  health,  and  that  you  would  join  him  when  you  were 
better.  Even  my  husband  doesn't  know  the  truth.  You 
have  no  cause  for  worry. 

SUZANNE.     Well — Georges  is  still  unhappy? 

THERESE.  Very — but  that  is  a  good  sign.  Oh,  I'm 
positive !  Because,  if  he  had  decided  to  get  a  divorce,  as  he 
threatened,  he  would  have  done  it  by  this  time,  that's  clear. 
But  let's  talk  about  yourself.  Poor  Suzanne,  how  could 
you — you,  whom  I  thought  so  reasonable,  whom  I  could 
trust  as  I  could  myself ? 

SUZANNE.  How  do  I  know?  Now  that  it's  all  over,  I 
can't  understand  it  myself — or  hardly 

THERESE.     Well,  you  married  for  love,  didn't  you? 

SUZANNE.     I  think  I  did ! 

THERESE.     Didn't  you? 

SUZANNE.  Oh,  yes,  I  loved  Georges,  but  I  loved  him 
as  a  young  girl  loves.  Do  you  remember?  I  was  eighteen, 
and  my  head  was  full  of  romantic  notions  that  I  got  from 
novels.  I  had  an  idea  that  a  husband  was  still  the  lover, 
the  man  who  brings  flowers  every  day,  and  says  nice  things, 
and  is  interested  in  you  alone.  I  was  surprised  to  find 
marriage  so — serious  a  matter.  My  husband  used  to  go 
away  for  weeks  at  a  time,  because  he  was  everywhere  in 
demand  to  try  out  his  invention.  The  days  were  long,  and  I 
had  no  way  of  filling  the  empty  hours. — Another  man  sang 
the  song  I  had  become  unaccustomed  to  hear  and  that  I 
longed  for — I  was  a  little  fool! — You  see,  my  story  is  not 
original. 

THEKESE.  And  I'm  not  surprised  at  it  except  that  it  is 
your  own.  Or  rather,  do  you  know  what  surprises  me? 
I  can,  with  a  little  effort,  imagine  the  tiresome  hours,  the 
idle  dreams,  even  your  flirting  and  imprudence.  But  that 
you  were  able  to — well — to  go  the  limit,  you,  you,  Suzanne ! 
I  can't  comprehend!  It  seems  that  in  such  cases,  there  is 


THE  PARDON  135 

so  great  a  chasm — and  so  difficult  to  bridge — from  begin- 
ning to  end !  Only  to  think  of  it ! 

SUZANNE.  You  see,  when  once  you  begin  sliding,  you 
go  from  one  step  down  to  the  next,  without  noticing.  Each 
new  step  into  the  great  unknown  seems  the  first,  so  that  you 
don't  notice  yourself  descending.  And  then,  well,  as  you 
near  the  final  leap,  something  evil  awakens  in  you.  It's  like 
a  fit  of  giddiness,  a  shameful  intoxication.  And  then  you 
go,  on,  on! — Of  course  when  you  begin,  you  don't  think 
you'll  go  to  extremes.  You  see,  Therese,  you  mustn't  be- 
gin; that  depends  on  us:  what  follows,  does  not. 

THERESE.     But,  did  you  love — the  other? 

SUZANNE.  I  think  now  that  I  never  did.  But  I  must 
have  loved  him  a  little  at  first.  If  I  hadn't,  what  sort  of 
woman  must  I  have  been?  Really,  I  don't  know  now. — 
How  strange  it  is ! 

THERESE.     Did  he  love  you? 

SUZANNE.     He  behaved  as  any  man  would. 

THERESE.     What  has  become  of  him? 

SUZANNE.     I  have  no  idea. 

THERESE.     Has  he  tried  to  see  you  again?  or  write? 

SUZANNE.     No. 

THERESE.  He  is  discreet.  And  now,  do  you  love  your 
husband  ? 

SUZANNE.  Certainly — him  alone.  I  love  him  for  his 
own  sake,  because  he  is  the  most  loyal  and  the  best  of  men, 
and  also  because  of  the  wrong  I  have  done  him.  I  love 
him  with  all  my  power  of  repentance,  with  a  new  heart,  and 
with  a  great  desire  to  sacrifice  my  entire  being  to  him. 

THERESE.  How  you  say  that,  Suzanne!  I'm  all  trem- 
bling to  hear  you ! 

SUZANNE.  Oh,  I'm  a  changed  woman.  I  have  learned 
more  these  last  few  days  than  in  all  the  rest  of  my  life 
before. 


136  JULES  LEMAITRE 

THERESE.     It's  true,  you  are  changed. 

[A  pause. 

SUZANNE.     So  long  as  he  believes  it! 

THERESE.  That  will  depend  almost  altogether  on  your- 
self, my  dear.  I  tell  you  he  still  loves  you,  though  he 
tries  to  keep  from  doing  so,  and  it's  for  that  reason  that  I 
had  you  come.  I  don't  say  you'll  regain  his  affection  with- 
out trouble.  At  first  it  will  be  hard,  his  wound  is  still 
tender!  But  the  important  point  is  that  you  should  be 
here,  near  him,  even,  perhaps,  in  spite  of  him.  You  must 
be  patient,  good,  submissive:  let  him  feel  that  you  are  sin- 
cere. He  should  find  once  more  in  you,  only  reinforced 
with  serious  intentions,  the  woman  you  were  when  you  were 
first  married;  and  then  the  remembrance  of  those  happy 
days  will  slowly  give  birth  again  to  other  remembrances. 
Then  the  charm  of  your  mere  presence  will,  almost  in- 
sensibly, work  on  his  mind.  But  listen  to  me  giving  you 
advice !  You  will  know  better  than  I  what  to  do.  To  tell 
the  truth,  these  matters  of  love  are  not  my  forte. 

[A  pause. 

SUZANNE.     Have  you  never  been  tempted,  Therese? 

THERESE.     No. 

SUZANNE.     Your  husband ? 

THERESE.  Excellent.  He's  not  like  yours:  a  great  in- 
ventor or  savant — but  he's  quite  satisfactory,  and  he's  not 
bad-looking  or  stupid.  I  have  a  deep  affection  for  him. 

SUZANNE.     Are  you  happy? 

THERESE.  Oh,  yes.  We  are  rich,  and  quite  gay  and 
happy.  We  know  how  to  spend  our  time,  he  with  his 
farms,  and  I  with  my  home.  We  meet  again  after  our 
work  with  the  utmost  pleasure,  and  we  live  like  two  old 
friends. — No,  I  have  never  been  tempted.  And  yet,  do  you 
know,  they  make  love  to  me,  here,  a  great  deal !  Well,  I 
never  paid  any  attention  to  it.  It's  my  opinion  that  when  a 


THE  PARDON  137 

husband  is  adequate,  it's  downright  madness  to  look  else- 
where for  what  one  has  at  home,  and  that  all  men  are  alike 
— or  at  least  sooner  or  later,  end  by  resembling  one  another. 

SUZANNE.      [Simply.]      No,  Therese. 

THERESE.  Well,  if  I'm  mistaken,  I  have  no  desire  to  go 
forth  and  find  out. 

[A  pause. 

SUZANNE.     Therese. 

THERESE.     What? 

SUZANNE.     Is  he  coming  soon? 

THERESE.  [Looking  at  the  clock.]  Yes,  it's  about  time 
now. 

SUZANNE.     I'm  afraid.    What  if  he  should  send  me  away ! 

THERESE.     He  won't!     He  won't. 

SUZANNE.  If  you  only  knew  how  he  talked  to  me,  there, 
when  he  left  me,  and  how  I  had  the  sensation  that  I  didn't 
exist  for  him  any  longer,  that  he  swept  me  out  of  his  life ! 
Oh,  I'm  afraid,  so  afraid ! 

THERESE.  [Listening.]  Listen!  It's  he.  Hide  your- 
self quickly;  get  out  of  the  way.  I'll  manage. 

[She  pushes  SUZANNE  into  an  adjoining  room,  through  the 
door  at  the  right.] 

GEORGES.  [Enters  center,  reading  a  letter  which  he  puts 
into  his  pocket  the  moment  he  sees  THERESE.]  Hello,  that 
you?  I'm  very  glad  to  see  you,  very  glad.  Is  Jacques 
well? 

THERESE.  Very  well. — Will  you  dine  with  us  this  even- 
ing? Come  just  as  you  are;  we'll  be  alone. 

GEORGES.  No  need  to  tell  you  I  accept.  How  I  must 
tire  you! 

THERESE.  You  know  perfectly  well  you  don't.  Jacques 
is  wild  about  you. 

GEORGES.     He's  a  great  fellow!    Don't  you  think  so? 

THERESE.      [Smiling.]     Oh,  certainly. 


138  JULES  LEMAITRE 

GEORGES.  I  owe  so  much  to  him!  What  would  have 
become  of  me  without  him ! — and  you,  Therese ! 

THERESE.     Good! — What  did  you  do  last  night? 

GEORGES.  [Hesitating,]  Last  night?  Oh,  yes;  you 
weren't  home.  What  did  I  do,  last  night?  Oh,  I  dined  at 
the  restaurant.  And  then  I  went  to  a  cafe-concert. 

THERESE.     All  alone? 

GEORGES.  To  be  sure! — Oh,  don't  pity  me,  I  spent  a 
tolerable  evening. 

THERESE.     Poor  fellow! 

GEORGES.  No,  no,  no,  it's  not  what  you  think.  You  see, 
I'm  so  busy  at  the  factory  that  I  haven't  a  moment  to 
think  of  my  private  affairs ;  and  then,  time  does  wonders. 
I'm  feeling  better  now,  now  that  I  am  free.  I  tell  you, 
I'm  beginning  to  appreciate  a  bachelor's  life  again. 

THERESE.  If  you  want  me  to  believe  that,  you'll  have 
to  say  it  in  a  different  tone  of  voice. 

GEORGES.     But  I  tell  you  very  calmly,  it  seems  to  me. 

THERESE.  What  were  you  reading  a  moment  ago,  when 
you  came  in? 

GEORGES.     I  ? 

THERESE.  You  were  re-reading  her  last  letter?  Don't 
deny  it. 

GEORGES.  Well,  what  of  it?  It  only  proves  I'm  a 
fool. 

THERESE.     I  don't  see  that? 

GEORGES.  I  feel  only  too  plainly  my  ridiculous  position ! 
How  insupportable  I  must  be  with  my  endless  complaints 
and  foolish  behavior!  I'm  a  fool,  to  think  my  affairs  are 
any  one's  else  concern!  I  ought  at  least  to  keep  still! 

THERESE.      [Supplicating.]      Georges! 

GEORGES.  There  you  are!  I  think  of  nothing  else, 
every  minute  of  the  day.  Even  when  I'm  at  work.  No, 
no,  it  was  abominable,  what  she  did!  Wait,  one  thing 


THE  PARDON  139 

comes  to  mind.  During  those  last  days,  when  I  was  igno- 
rant of  everything,  I  can't  tell  you  how  tender  and  loving 
she  was,  how  she  cuddled  up  to  me !  She  was  never  like 
that  before ;  up  to  that  time  she  was  sweet  and  affectionate, 
but  rather  indolent  and  passive.  And  when  I  saw  her  for 
the  first  time  so — enthusiastic,  I  said  to  myself,  "  At  last, 
she  loves  me ;  she  loves  me  for  good,  she  is  mine  now !  " 
And  just  at  that  moment. — Oh,  the  liar,  the  liar! 

THERESE.     Who  knows ? 

GEORGES.     What? 

THERESE.  I  say,  who  knows?  So  far  as  I  can  see,  that 
proves  only  one  thing:  that  she  sought  protection  in  you, 
a  refuge  against  herself.  It  proves  that  she  has  never 
ceased  loving  you.  That's  my  first  point.  I'll  tell  you  my 
second  in  a  moment. 

GEORGES.  My  dear  Therese,  I'm  not  yet  altogether  an 
idiot;  keep  that  in  mind.  Those  demonstrations  of  affec- 
tion given  to  the  husband  at  the  very  time  of —  Capital! 
Classic !  I  see  my  situation !  It  has  been  studied  and  de- 
scribed by  very  good  authors.  And,  you  see,  I  have  even 
had  an  opportunity  of  feeling  the  truth  of  their  remarks — a 
splendid  opportunity! 

THERESE.     Why  this  ill-considered  irony? 

GEORGES.  Oh,  let  me  do  it,  it  relieves  me,  at  any  rate. 
There  is  something  decidedly  comic  in  it,  you  know.  [  With 
a  change  of  voice.}  Well,  the  day  I  learned  everything,  I 
felt  as  if  I  had  been  struck  with  a  club.  In  a  second,  I  saw 
she  was  nothing  to  me.  I  felt  no  hatred,  no  anger.  When 
she  came  in,  I  didn't  question  her,  I  didn't  blame  or  bully 
her.  I  merely  said  to  her,  "  Go  away !  "  She  went,  and 
I  didn't  go  back  to  see  her  leave.  I  can't  say  either  that  I 
suffered.  It's  remarkable. 

THERESE.     And  since  then? 

GEORGES.     Oh,  since! — The  idea  is  always  with  me,  al- 


140  JULES  LEMAITRE 

ways — vibrating,  revolving,  like  an  animal  gnawing  at  my 
vitals! — It's  enough  to  drive  me  mad.  Yet  sometimes,  I 
am  on  the  point  of  giving  in.  I  remember  the  time  when 
we  were  engaged ;  I  can  see  her  again,  so  sweet,  and  tender, 
and  innocent —  And  then  I  remember  trifling  details  of 
our  life  together,  her  little  mannerisms, — things  she  said 
in  her  own  particular  way.  And  then  I  feel  myself  giving 
in,  and  finding  excuses  for  her:  her  inexperience,  her  youth, 
her  loneliness  when  I  was  away — but  all  of  a  sudden,  the 
image  of  what  she  did  surges  in  on  me  and  lives  again  in 
my  brain,  clear  as  day,  precise  in  its  concrete  details — 
In  my  brain?  No,  in  my  flesh,  like  a  claw.  And  then  I 
want  to  hold  her  in  my  arms,  cover  her  with  kisses,  mark 
her  with  them,  blot  out  those  others,  and  make  her  my  own 
again — or  perhaps  strangle  her. 

THERESE.  In  other  words,  you  still  love  her:  my  second 
point. 

GEORGES.  [Following  his  own  train  of  ideas.]  But,  my 
God,  why?  Why  did  she? 

THERESE.  My  dear  friend,  that  we  shall  never  know — 
nor  will  she,  for  that  matter.  Therefore,  there  is  no  use 
asking  her.  But  since  you  still  love  one  another,  since  you 
certainly  cannot  live  without  her,  nor  she  without  you — 
it's  very  simple:  you  must  forgive  her  and  take  her  back — 
at  once. 

GEORGES.  Take  her  back?  But,  I'd  be  a  coward, 
Therese ! 

THERESE.  A  coward  because  you  would  be  doing  a  good 
deed?  Because  you  would  be  doing  an  act  of  justice?  Yes, 
justice!  Suzanne  has  expiated  her  sin,  and  she  is  ready  to 
expiate  further.  You  have  as  a  proof  the  letters  I  have 
received  from  her,  those  I  have  shown  you,  and  those  she 
wrote  to  you ;  they  are  full  of  humility,  they  are  pathetically 
sincere 


THE  PARDON  141 

GEORGES.     Sincere? 

THERESE.  Yes,  sincere !  That's  as  clear  as  day,  and  at 
bottom,  you  believe  it  yourself,  as  well  as  I.  Well,  why 
do  you  pretend  to  doubt  it? 

GEORGES.  Let's  drop  it,  Therese.  I  have  been  made  a 
fool  of  long  enough 

THERESE.  That  word  again !  The  word  proves  that 
you  attach  less  importance  to  what  you  feel  and  really  be- 
lieve, than  to  the  interpretations  that  fools  or  gossips  might 
make — if  your  affair  had  been  public.  Now,  it  is  not.  It 
is  therefore  merely  the  idea  of  being  made  a  fool  of — and 
you  haven't  been — that  terrifies  you.  Well,  that  is  perfectly 
ridiculous  and  petty  if  you  want  to  know  what  I  think;  it's 
unworthy  of  you. 

GEORGES.    You  abuse  me  from  sheer  charity,  Therese. 

THERESE.  You're  mistaken;  I  abuse  you  with  perfect 
sincerity.  If  every  one  here  knew  your  story,  I'd  still  say, 
"  Take  back  your  wife  who  repents  and  loves  you."  But 
every  one  does  not  know  what  has  happened;  every  one, 
including  my  husband,  and  even  Suzanne's  own  mother. 
There  are  just  you  and  I — you  and  I,  do  you  understand? — 
who  know  it. 

GEORGES.     Are  you  sure  of  that? 

THERESE.     Yes,  I  am  sure. 

GEORGES.     Do  you  think  that  there ? 

THERESE.  They  may  have  talked,  or  supposed,  but  rest 
assured,  they've  stopped  talking  long  ago. — Anyway,  what 
difference  can  it  make  to  you  what  is  said  five  hundred 
miles  from  here? 

GEORGES.  But,  my  dear  Therese,  you  understand  that 
this  reconciliation  is  a  very  serious  matter — that  cannot 
take  place  except  under  certain  conditions.  I  must  be  abso- 
lutely assured  that  I  can  count  on  her  without  the  shadow 
of  a  doubt.  I  must —  No,  it's  impossible.  I  admit  she 


142  JULES  LEMAITRE 

is  sorry  for  what  she  did,  that  her  resolutions  are  good, 
but  do  you  know  what  they  say  ? 

THERESE.     What? 

GEORGES.  That  it  is  more  difficult  for  a  woman  who — 
well,  to  stop  at  a  first  lover  than  to  have  none  at  all. 

THERESE.  What  great  moralist  said  that  ?  And  what  did 
he  know  about  it  ?  Why  couldn't  he  have  kept  still !  Ac- 
cording to  such  sages  the  hearts  of  men  and  women  ought 
to  be  ruled  in  straight  lines,  like  music  paper ! — I  tell  you, 
I  will  answer  for  Suzanne,  myself:  she  knows  her  duty,  and 
she  accepts  every  condition;  she  knows  that  from  now  on 
she  will  have  to  be  not  only  irreproachable,  but  at  every 
opportunity  give  you  absolute  proof  of  it.  I  should  only 
like  to  be  sure  of  you;  for,  make  no  mistake,  you're  the  one 
who  will  have  the  greater  and  more  difficult  burden  to  bear. 
It  is  easier  to  repent  than  to  forgive.  Bear  in  mind  what 
that  means:  to  forgive  the  slip. — It  is  necessary,  my  dear 
Georges,  really  to  forget,  or  to  remember  only  to  pity,  with- 
out a  spoken  word !  Shall  you  be  able  to  do  that  ? 

GEORGES.     Certainly,  if  I  were  sure 

THERESE.  [Smiling.]  But  I  am  sure,  I  who  am  a  very 
reasonable  being.  Come,  have  the  courage  to  consent  at  once 
to  what  you  are  going  to  do,  sooner  or  later.  [A  gesture 
from  GEORGES.]  Oh,  yes!  Or  why,  in  spite  of  your  assertions 
at  first,  haven't  you  applied  for  a  divorce  ?  How,  when  you 
came  here,  did  you  imagine  of  your  own  accord,  that  story 
of  Suzanne's  illness  and  her  spending  her  vacation  in  the 
country,  unless  you  acknowledged  in  your  secret  heart  the 
possibility  of  a  reconciliation,  and  forgiveness?  How  sen- 
sible you  have  been !  No,  I  tell  you,  everything  is  not 
lost!  Nothing  is  hopeless  when  you  apply  a  little  good- 
will and  heart-felt  simplicity.  Don't  torture  yourself  any 
longer.  Isn't  there  a  touch  of  false  pride,  and — well — some 
innate  meanness  in  you  when  you  nourish  and  rear  up  in 


THE  PARDON  143 

yourself  the  evil  you  have  in  you?  You  will  be  cured, 
merely  in  living  and  loving.  You  are  both  young,  and  you 
both  have  a  plenteous  store  of  happiness  if  you  gather  up 
the  fragments  of  the  past —  What  are  you  thinking  about? 

GEORGES.  I'm  thinking — that  you  are  the  best  of 
friends ;  that  I  can  hide  nothing  from  you ;  that  you  know 
my  wounds  and  the  balm  that  is  good  for  them ;  that  I  wish 
to  believe  you  and  act  on  your  advice. 

THERESE.  Your  wanting  to  is  not  enough,  Monsieur. 
What  do  you  decide? 

GEORGES.  Well — write  to  her,  and  let  her  hope  that  per- 
haps— after  a  while —  But  you  are  the  one  who  wanted  it ! 
You  understand  it's  your  idea,  that  if  it  turns  out  unfortu- 
nately, I  shall  have  a  right  to  blame  you? 

THERESE.  Yes,  I  understand.  [Pointing  to  the  door  at 
the  right.]  Do  you  know  who  is  there? 

GEORGES.     Who? 

THERESE.     Suzanne. 

GEORGES.  Is  Suzanne  there  ?  No,  no,  let  her  go !  I 
can't — yet!  It's  too  soon!  I  tell  you,  I  can't! 

THERESE.  [Opening  the  door.]  Come,  Suzanne.  [To 
GEORGES.]  I'll  see  you  later. 

[She  leaves  through  the  center  door. 

SUZANNE.  [She  comes  down-stage,  very  humble,  to- 
ward GEORGES,  whose  back  is  turned.]  Georges! 

GEORGES.     I  didn't  hear  you,  Suzanne. 

SUZANNE.  Georges  !  Don't  send  me  away ! — Let  me  live 
with  you — regain  my  place  at  your  side — prove  to  you  that 
I'm  not  altogether  unworthy  your  forgiveness — I  won't  be 
troublesome. — Don't  look  at  me,  only  let  me  exist  in  your 
house —  Will  you  ? 

GEORGES.     Yes,  Suzanne. 

SUZANNE.  How  good  you  are!  I  love  you!  [She  takes 
his  hand  and  kisses  it.]  Well, — do  you  want  me  to  stay? 


144 


JULES  LEMAITRE 


GEORGES.  Yes,  Suzanne.  [She  still  holds  his  hand; 
he  gathers  her  slowly  to  him.]  You  understand  that  this 
is  a  serious  moment  for  us  both?  You  realize  what  your 
responsibilities  are  in  returning  here?  You  are  firmly 
determined  never  to ? 

SUZANNE.     Oh ! 


GEORGES. 
SUZANNE. 
GEORGES. 
of  it? 

SUZANNE. 
GEORGES. 
SUZANNE. 


Swear  it. 

Oh  yes,  I  swear. 

So,  the  past  is  wiped  out  ?    We'll  never  speak 


Never. 

We'll  never  think  of  it? 
Never. 
[GEORGES  draws  her  nearer  to  him,  she  bends  back, 

and  he  kisses  her  forehead. 

GEORGES.      Now,  let  us  try  to  live!      [A   long  pause. 
SUZANNE   is   immobile;  GEORGES   walks   back   and  forth.] 
Is  your  mother  well? 
SUZANNE.     Well  enough. 
GEORGES.     What's  the  matter? 
SUZANNE.     Nothing  serious:  neuralgia. 
GEORGES.     Of  course:  change  of  weather. 
SUZANNE.     Probably. 

[A  pause. 

GEORGES.     What  train  did  you  come  on? 
SUZANNE.     The   five   o'clock.     Therese   met  me  at   the 
station. 

GEORGES.     Your  baggage ? 

SUZANNE.     Therese  said  she  would  look  after  it. 
GEORGES.     Oh,    by    the    way,    we    dine    with    her    to- 
night.     You'll  meet  her  husband;   he's  an  old   friend  of 
mine. 

SUZANNE.     Yes,  I  know. 

[A  pause. 


THE  PARDON  145 

GEORGES.  But — I'm  thinking — after  your  long  journey 
in  such  dust — will  you  go  into  my  room? 

SUZANNE.     With  pleasure. 

GEORGES.  Here,  this  way.  [He  opens  the  door  at  the 
left.]  You  see,  the  house  is  not  bad — almost  a  little  hotel, 
between  court  and  garden. — And  I  don't  pay  overmuch; 
quite  a  bargain — just  think 

[End  of  Act  I.] 

ACT  II. 

[Two  weeks  later.     The  same  room  as  in  the  First  Act,  but 
more  richly  furnished.] 

SUZANNE.  [Seated,  sewing.  Enter  GEORGES.]  Hello, 
dear  ?  Have  you  had  a  good  day  ?  Did  you  work  hard  ? 

GEORGES.     [Indifferently.]     Yes. 

SUZANNE.     Nothing  wrong? 

GEORGES.     No. 

SUZANNE.     Then,  you're   satisfied? 

GEORGES.     Yes. 

SUZANNE.     Is  it  true  that  the  workmen  adore  you? 

GEORGES.     I'm  not  hard  on  them. 

SUZANNE.  Do  you  know  what  was  said  of  you  yester- 
day where  I  was  visiting? 

GEORGES.     What  ? 

SUZANNE.  That  you  were  a  very  remarkable  man — 
those  were  the  very  words — and  that  your  invention  was  one 
of  the  finest  and  most  useful  of  modern  times.  Explain  it 
to  me,  will  you? 

GEORGES.     What? 

SUZANNE.     Your  invention. 

GEORGES.     You  wouldn't  understand. 


146  JULES  LEMAITRE 

SUZANNE.     If  you  explained  it,  I  might. 

GEORGES.     Never  mind;  it  doesn't  concern  you. 

SUZANNE.  They  said  that  your  discovery  saved  hun- 
dreds of  human  lives  every  year. 

GEORGES.     It's  quite  possible. 

SUZANNE.  Splendid!  Oh,  how  proud  I  am  of  you! 
How  I  love  you!  [She  kisses  him;  he  accepts  the  kiss 
rather  impatiently.]  Don't  you  like  me  to  kiss  you? 

GEORGES.     Of  course  I  do. 

SUZANNE.     What's   the   trouble? 

GEORGES.     Nothing. 

SUZANNE.     Yes,  there's    something. 

GEORGES.  Why  didn't  you  go  out  to-day? — You  ought 
to  take  a  little  walk  every  day,  to  see  your  friends. — A 
young  woman  like  you  ought  to  have  some  amusement. 

SUZANNE.  My  friends! — I  haven't  been  able  to  make 
any  real  ones  during  the  past  two  weeks. — And  then,  I 
thought  you  preferred  to  have  me  stay  at  home.  I  enjoy 
myself,  I  tell  you,  and  I  have  plenty  to  do.  Look  at  this 
room,  you'd  hardly  recognize  it! 

GEORGES.     That's  so. 

SUZANNE.     I  arranged  it  all  myself.     Isn't  it  pretty? 

GEORGES.     Yes. 

SUZANNE.  You're  not  very  enthusiastic  about  it — does- 
n't it  please  you? 

GEORGES.     Oh,  I 

SUZANNE.  Come,  tell  me ! — I  don't  mind  if  you  criticize, 
so  long  as  you  notice  what  I  do. 

GEORGES.     Well 

SUZANNE.     What? 

GEORGES.  Well — what  shall  I  say?  My  tastes  are  a  bit 
bourgeois,  and  all  these  knick-knacks  and 

SUZANNE.     You  don't  like  it? 

GEORGES.     Oh,  I'm  no  judge,  I  don't  understand,  I  think 


THE  PARDON  147 

it's  rather —  You  aren't  angry?  Well,  I  think  this  room 
is  a  bit — er — fast.  There! 

SUZANNE.  Oh,  Georges ! — And  I  went  to  so  much  trou- 
ble, and  I  thought  it  was  so  pretty!  [Controlling  her  emo- 
tion.] But  I'll  change  it  all,  I  tell  you. — You  see,  I  want 
there  to  be  nothing  in  me  or  about  me  that  is  at  all  dis- 
pleasing to  you 

GEORGES.     Why  didn't  you  go  out  this  afternoon? 

SUZANNE.  I  have  already  told  you:  there  are  certain 
days  when  I  rather  like  to  stay  home  alone. 

GEORGES.     That's  not  the  real  reason? 

SUZANNE.     I  see  no  other. 

GEORGES.  If  you  had  the  courage  to  be  absolutely  sin- 
cere  

SUZANNE.  Well,  there  may  be  another  reason.  Do  you 
remember  what  you  told  me  about  that  beautiful  Madame 
Rousseau,  our  new  acquaintance? 

GEORGES.     Why,  no. 

SUZANNE.  You  wanted  me  to  see  less  of  her,  because 
she  seemed  to  you  rather  frivolous  and  you  feared  she  might 
exert  a  bad  influence  over  me.  As  I  was  practically  sure 
of  meeting  her  if  I  went  out  to-day — why,  I  decided  to  stay 
in. 

GEORGES.  I  didn't  want  that  at  all — I  advised  you  not 
to  make  Madame  Rousseau  one  of  your  intimate  friends,  to 
manage  to  meet  her  less  often. — You  behave  as  if  I  were  a 
tyrant;  it's  ridiculous. 

SUZANNE.  I  thought  I  was  doing  right.  Forgive 
me. 

GEORGES.  Oh,  it's  nothing,  and  there  is  no  reason  to  be 
so  repentant.  But  you  ought  to  see  that  I  have  more  con- 
fidence in  you,  that  I  don't  want  to  make  your  life  in- 
tolerable. At  any  rate,  you  might  have  called  on  Therese — 
why  don't  you  see  her  oftener? 


148  JULES  LEMAITRE 

SUZANNE.  But,  my  dear,  I've  called  twice  without  find- 
ing her  in,  and  it's  over  a  week  since  she  was  here.  You 
might  even  say  she  was  dropping  our  acquaintance ! 

GEORGES.  What  an  idea!  Therese  feels  as  she  always 
did  toward  us !  But  you  see,  she  has  her  husband  and  her 
home. — Well,  to  return  to  you,  I'd  really  prefer  you  to  go 
out,  take  walks — it's  not  good  for  you  to  be  alone  too  much 
— what  must  you  be  thinking  of  all  the  while? 

SUZANNE.  Nothing,  my  dear;  I  haven't  time.  When 
once  you  set  about  looking  after  your  household  seri- 
ously  

GEORGES.  I  insist,  you  are  thinking  of  something. 
I  can  see  it,  I  am  positive —  I  know  you  have  something 
continually  on  your  mind.  Why,  last  night,  at  the  play — 
it  was  gay  enough,  too — you  were  so  sad ! 

SUZANNE.  You're  mistaken,  I  thoroughly  enjoyed  my- 
self. 

GEORGES.     Not  visibly. 

SUZANNE.  That  was  perhaps  because  I  had  already  seen 
the  play;  we  go  to  the  theater  nearly  every  night. 

GEORGES.  Well,  what  could  we  do  with  our  evenings, 
here  alone,  tete-a-tete  ? — You  haven't  many  amusements,  for 
that  matter. 

SUZANNE.  I  could  well  do  without  that,  if  you  wished 
me  to. 

GEORGES.  No.  It's  the  best  thing  for  us  to  go  out  as 
often  as  possible,  only  I  should  like  you,  I  confess,  to 
appear  to  enjoy  yourself  more  than  you  do.  Why  did  you 
look  like  that  last  night? 

SUZANNE.     Well 

GEORGES.  Because  of  the  subject  of  the  play?  It  had 
to  do  with  a  husband. — My  poor  girl,  what  would  you  have 
our  comic  writers  do?  It's  our  ancient  French  gaiety.  If 
people  didn't  go  there  to  forget,  there  would  always  be 


THE  PARDON  149 

half  of  the  audience  who  would  not  dare  to  laugh.  Why 
didn't  you  laugh?  I  can  tell  you,  I  did! 

SUZANNE.     Georges ! 

GEORGES.     Tell  me,  what  were  you  thinking  of? 

SUZANNE.     Nothing,  my  dear. 

GEORGES.  At  this  moment,  what  are  you  thinking  of? 
Come  now,  out  with  it — at  once — there,  under  that  calm 
countenance,  arise  remembrances,  thoughts — dare  to  say 


no 


SUZANNE.  But,  my  dear,  it's  not  I  but  you  who  are 
continually  thinking  of  it. 

GEORGES.  [Surprised.]  That's  true — always.  [A 
pause.]  Shall  I  tell  you  why? 

SUZANNE.     Georges,  please ! 

GEORGES.  Because — well — I  don't  know  how  it  happened 
— it's  my  fault!  I  didn't  question  you,  I  didn't  even  wish 
to  hear — but  there  is  something — certain  details,  that  I'd 
like  to  hear  now,  that  I  must,  yes,  I  must  know.  Promise 
me  to  answer,  and  when  I  know,  that'll  be  the  end;  you 
sha'n't  suffer  any  more. 

SUZANNE.     [Imploringly.]     My  dear ! 

GEORGES.  Yes,  yes,  you  must !  Otherwise,  I  can't  spend 
a  quiet  moment,  and  I  shall  make  you  miserable. — Tell  me, 
where  did  you  meet  ?  How  did  you  manage  to  get  away  ? 

SUZANNE.  I  beg  you!  It  will  make  both  of  us  sorry 
afterward ! 

GEORGES.  You  must  tell  me,  you  must.  Was  it  in  a 
hotel? 

SUZANNE.     No. 

GEORGES.     In  an. apartment  he  had  furnished? 

SUZANNE.     Yes. 

GEORGES.  And — what  time  was  it  ?  Tell  me !  Tell  me ! 
Was  it  in  the  afternoon  you  went  out? 

SUZANNE.     Yes. 


'150  JULES  LEMAITRE 

GEORGES.  While  I,  poor  fool! —  Oh,  I  see  it  all  now: 
cab,  heavy  veil,  two  doors — wasn't  that  it? 

SUZANNE.     Just  about. 

GEORGES.  Nothing  original  about  it,  at  least!  And,  did 
you  stay  long? 

SUZANNE.     Oh,  no! 

GEORGES.     An  hour? 

SUZANNE.     I  don't  know. 

GEORGES.     And  you  went  often? 

SUZANNE.     Twice. 

GEORGES.  I  was  away  at  that  time  for  long  periods — 
did  he  ever  come  to  our  house? 

SUZANNE.     No. 

GEORGES.     No? 

SUZANNE.  I  swear  it  before  God,  who  is  my  witness 
what  I  suffer  this  minute ! 

GEORGES.  And — what  particularly  attracted  you  in  him  ? 
In  what  was  he  superior  to  me  ?  You  won't  answer  ?  What 
are  you  thinking  of  now?  [Approaching  her.]  Were  you 
— were  you  happy? 

SUZANNE.     No. 

GEORGES.     You  lie !     You  lie ! 

SUZANNE.  Oh,  Georges,  you're  cruel!  [She  breaks  into 
sobs.] 

GEORGES.  Yes,  I'm  a  brute — a  coward;  it's  true  we 
swore  never  to  speak  of  these  things,  and  I  have  broken 
my  word — you  have  kept  yours:  it  was  easier  for  you. 

SUZANNE.  If  you  have  suffered  so  much  in  keeping 
silent,  think  what  I  must  have  endured:  to  speak. — Think 
of  that.  I'm  not  blaming  you,  and  I'm  trying  not  to  cry, 
but  if  you  begin  again  to  cross-question  me  as  you  did  just 
now,  I'll  always  do  as  you  ask  me,  only  I  warn  you,  what- 
ever wrong  I  have  done  you,  it  won't  be  long  before  we 
are  quits. 


THE  PARDON  151 

GEORGES.  You  are  right,  Suzanne :  I  beg  your  pardon. — 
It's  all  over  now. — Come,  dry  your  tears — and  go  out,  take 
a  walk — you  still  have  time,  and  it  will  do  you  a  world 
of  good. 

SUZANNE.     I  don't  want  to,  dear. 

GEORGES.  Tut,  tut !  You  don't  have  to  be  in  the  house 
forever — you  are  free.  Take  a  walk,  I  want  you  to — I 
must  be  alone — go  now,  go ! 

SUZANNE.     Very  well,  dear.     [She  goes  out.] 

GEORGES.  [Alone.]  To  work!  That  is  left  me,  at 
least. 

[He  sits  at  a  table,  opens  a  book,  moves  some  papers, 
takes  a  pen,  and  looks  straight  before  him.  Enter  THERESE.] 

GEORGES.     [Joyfully.]     You! 

THKRESE.     Isn't  Suzanne  here? 

GEORGES.     Didn't  you  meet  her? 

THERESE.     No. 

GEORGES.     She  has  just  gone  out. 

THERESE.     Then  I'll  run;  I  came  to  take  her  with  me. 

GEORGES.  She  was  complaining  that  she's  seen  nothing 
of  you  recently.  She  said  you  were  avoiding  us. 

THERESE.  You  know  that's  not  true.  I  have  come  to 
be  so  intimately  connected  with  her  affairs — I'm  sometimes 
afraid  I  get  to  be  troublesome,  at  least  just  now — and  I 
don't  like  to  impose  myself —  You  can  easily  understand 
my  feelings. 

GEORGES.     Of  course. 

THERESE.  Did  you  tell  her  that  we  met  by  accident  two 
or  three  times  as  you  left  the  factory? — It  was  quite  natu- 
ral, because  it's  in  my  neighborhood. 

GEORGES.  What  was  the  use?  She  might  think  we  were 
speaking  of  her,  and  worry.  It's  better  for  her  to  know 
nothing  at  all. 

THERESE.     Of  course. 


152  JULES  LEMAITRE 

GEORGES.  Oh,  Therese,  how  I  enjoyed  those  walks  with 
you,  and  those  conversations — all  too  short! — along  the 
great  empty  quays ! — Those  were  my  only  moments  of  hap- 
piness. I  don't  know  what  I  should  do  without  you.  How 
good  of  you  to  come  now!  Shall  I  tell  you  something? 
I  rather  thought  you'd  come. 

THERESE.  So,  you  and  Suzanne  don't — hit  it  off  to- 
gether ? 

GEORGES.  Well,  no!  I've  just  had  a  ridiculous  scene 
with  her. 

THERESE.     What  was  the  matter? 

GEORGES.     Nothing. 

THERESE.     Isn't  she  nice  to  you? 

GEORGES.  She's  perfect — only — do  what  I  can,  it's  im- 
possible to  forget;  I  keep  thinking  of  it  all  the  time.  It's 
in  my  blood,  and  I  can't  get  rid  of  it.  I'm  poisoned. 

THERESE.  And  yet  you  don't  doubt  her  repentance,  or 
her  love  for  you? 

GEORGES.  Oh,  she's  doing  her  best,  but  I  can't  rid  my- 
self of  the  idea.  I  thought  that  if  she  were  with  me  every- 
thing would  turn  out  beautifully;  I  thought  if  I  could  see 
her  near  me  and  hold  her  in  my  arms,  that  would  dispel 
the  phantoms  of  the  past.  Not  a  bit  of  it.  When  she's 
moody,  it  gets  on  my  nerves,  because  I  imagine  she's  think- 
ing of  what  happened, — and  when  she's  gay,  I  think  she's 
making  game  of  me.  Listen,  Therese,  since  she's  come  back 
— it's  awful! — I  can't  drive  away  the  thought  of  him,  that 
other —  I  think  of  him  oftener  than  before.  If  I  let  him 
alone,  as  I  did,  when  the  smash  came,  it  was  merely  be- 
cause I  had  decided  on  divorce.  But  now  it's  clear  as  day 
my  attitude  toward  him  is  completely  changed.  I've  got  to 
find  him,  and  tell  him 

THERESE.      [Smiling.]      Rather  late  for  that. 

GEORGES.     I  appear  to  you  ridiculous? 


THE  PARDON  153 

THERESE.  No,  only  an  object  of  pity,  and, — if  I  may 
say  so, — not  very  generous.  Yes  or  no,  have  you  forgiven 
Suzanne? — You  have  no  right,  since  you've  taken  her  back, 
to  make  her  unhappy.  You  give  with  one  hand  and  take 
back  with  the  other.  You  mustn't.  Look  out,  Georges, 
you  are  the  only  one  who  is  really  at  fault. 

GEORGES.  It's  easy  enough  for  you  to  talk.  Forgive 
her,  I've  done  that!  But  forget — I  cannot.  You  see,  I 
simply  cannot!  Why,  at  times  she  makes  me  feel  very 
tenderly  toward  her  with  her  great  sorrow  and  that  little 
air  of  submission — she's  young  and  not  bad-looking.  I  kiss 
and  pet  her  like  the  pretty  child  she  is — but  the  moment 
she  is  in  my  arms,  it's  just  as  if  a  burning  flame  shot 
through  me.  I  say  to  myself,  "  She  is  comparing!  "  and 
then  I  cast  her  off  brutally,  or  else  I  press  her  more  closely 
as  if  I  wanted  to  hurt  her.  And  then  she  is  afraid,  and 
doesn't  understand  what  I  mean.  At  bottom,  I  believe  I 
hate  her.  That's  because  I  have  loved  her  too  deeply. — 
I  can't  tell  you  what  she  has  been  to  me.  I  was  quite 
a  student,  I  had  done  a  good  deal  of  traveling,  and  had 
seen  some  of  life,  even;  met  all  kinds  of  women.  But  I 
had  never  before  really  been  in  love;  she  was  the  first. 
I  sought  in  her  the  final  rest,  a  haven  for  life.  In  her,  I 
centered  all  the  tenderness  of  which  I  was  capable,  every 
thought,  my  whole  ambition;  I  worked  in  order  that 
she  might  be  proud  of  me,  and  become  rich.  It  was 
for  her  sake  that  I  was  proud  of  my  successes. — You  have 
no  idea  how  seriously  I  took  marriage — I  was  a  fool, 
wasn't  I? 

THERESE.     [Troubled.]     Not  at  all. 

GEORGES.  And  every  day  when  I  came  home,  and  saw 
her  lighted  window  from  the  street,  my  heart  beat  as  it 
did  the  day  after  I  was  married. — Yes,  every  time  my  heart 
beat,  as  I  got  nearer  and  nearer  to  her  lips,  to  that  kiss  I 


154  JULES  LEMAITRE 

had  looked  forward  to  the  whole  day  long. — Can  you  un- 
derstand that? 

THERESE.     [As  before.]     Perfectly. 

GEORGES.  Think  what  I  went  through! — My  poor 
Therese ! 

THERESE.  It  is  too  bad — I  often  think  of  it — .  Your 
life  has  been  bound  up  inseparably  with  mine  this  last 
month.  How  I  wish  I  could  be  of  some  help  to  you;  I 
can't  bear  to  see  you  this  way,  but  what  can  I  say?  The 
only  thing  I  can  do  is  to  listen  to  you,  and  I'm  doing  that 
with  all  my  heart.  Who  knows  ?  Perhaps  by  suffering  and 
talking  about  it,  your  trouble  will  be  lightened ! — And  then, 
recognizing  Suzanne's  efforts,  you  will  see  it  all  in  its  true 
light,  like  the  true  man  you  are,  for  it  seems  that  you  men 
are  more  just  than  we.  Time  will  heal  your  wound;  I'm 
sure  you  will  still  be  happy. 

GEORGES.  No,  no — it  was  all  an  illusion:  between  her 
and  me  there  is  a  chasm  that  cannot  be  bridged.  Time, 
reason,  her  repentance — nothing  is  of  any  use — something 
else 

THERESE.     What? 

GEORGES.  I  don't  know — I'm  changed,  somehow.  I'm 
not  what  I  was.  At  times,  I  believe  I'm  still  in  love  with 
her,  but  it's  not  the  same  sort  of  love — no ! —  Very 
mysterious,  isn't  it? — you  can't  understand,  can  you, 
Therese  ? 

THERESE.  Why  do  you  always  ask  whether  I  under- 
stand ? 

GEORGES.  You  are  wisdom  incarnate,  Therese. — You're 
everything  that's 

THERESE.     Oh,  quite! 

GEORGES.  Don't  make  fun !  Shall  I  tell  you  ?  You  are 
the  sort  of  woman  meant  for  me. 

THERESE.     Oh ! 


THE  PARDON  155 

GEORGES.  It  might  have  happened  that  way;  I  knew 
you  a  long  time  before  I  knew  Suzanne.  You  were  just 
as  pretty  as  she — you  still  are,  prettier,  even — yes,  you 
are! — Why  do  you  keep  your  veil  on? 

THERESE.     Do  you  object  to  it? 

GEORGES.     Yes,  it  hides  your  kind  eyes. 

THERESE.  Very  well —  [She  takes  off  her  veil  and 
throws  it  on  a  chair.] 

GEORGES.  [Looking  at  her.]  Yes,  it's  you  again — I  see 
you  now  as  a  young  girl;  you  have  hardly  changed,  you 
had  that  same  calm,  sweet  air  about  you,  that  enveloping 
charm.  Only,  as  we  had  played  together  since  childhood, 
you  never  appealed  to  me  as  a  woman;  I  was  near  hap- 
piness without  knowing  it.  Oh,  what  a  fool  I  am!  I 
wonder  whether  you  would  have  accepted  me? 

THERESE.     Perhaps. 

GEORGES.     Really  ? 

THERESE.  Oh,  yes —  I'll  tell  you  a  secret,  there's  noth- 
ing wrong  in  that,  it's  so  long  ago.  When  you  asked  for 
Suzanne's  hand — I  was  reasonable  enough  at  the  time! — I 
was  a  little  envious.  I  can't  deny  that  I  had  a  high  regard 
for  you,  Georges.  And  if  lately  I  have  gone  to  a  good  deal 
of  trouble  for  your  sake,  it  was  friendship,  pure  and  sim- 
ple— yet  perhaps  with  a  tinge,  an  after-thought  of  those 
few  tears  you  once  cost  me. —  But  let's  talk  about  some- 
thing else ! 

GEORGES.  No,  please !  How  unfortunate,  Therese !  We 
should  have  been  happy  together;  you  would  have  been  a 
true  companion  for  me !  Why  did  I  never  see  that  before  ? 
With  your  splendid  woman's  commonsense,  you  would  have 
been  not  only  a  wife  for  me,  but  an  associate.  Your  light- 
ness of  heart  would  have  made  my  life  happy. — You  would 
never  have  betrayed  me !  You  would  have  loved  me  tenderly 
— as  I  would  have  loved  you — always 


156  JULES  LEMAITRE 

THERESE.      [In  a  revery.]     Yes,  I  think- 


GEORGES.  At  least,  since  this  isn't  so — have  pity  on  me, 
my  dear —  [He  takes  her  hand,  but  she  draws  it  back.] 
What's  the  matter?  You  can  at  least  pity  me!  I  have 
the  right,  because  you  know,  Therese,  it's  your  fault 
I'm  so  unhappy; — you  ought  to  be  kinder  to  me  now,  espe- 
cially as  you  too  have  made  me  suffer. — Let  me — let  me  love 
you,  let  me  feel  the  warmth  of  your  affection,  let  me  for- 
get   [Pie  approaches  her  and  nearly  puts  his  head  on 

her  shoulder.] 

THKRESE.     [Alarmed.]     Georges!    Georges! 

GEORGES.     What  is  it,  darling? 

THERESE.     You  mustn't,  Georges,  you  mustn't ! 

GEORGES.     What? 

THERESE.     I 

GEORGES.  I  adore  you,  Therese,  that's  the  downright 
truth,  and  I'm  surprised  I  never  realized  it  before.  When 
I  took  so  strange  a  pleasure  in  confessing  to  you  things 
I  should  have  concealed  even  from  myself — it  was  because 
I  loved  you !  And  you  yourself,  Therese,  if  you  bore  with 
me  like  the  angel  you  are,  if  my  everlasting  complaints 
didn't  annoy  you,  it  was  because  you  loved  to  console  me, 
that  something  of  my  fever  had  got  into  your  blood.  There 
are  certain  things  you  can't  listen  to  unmoved. —  Don't 
shrink  from  me,  dearest.  After  what  you've  done  for  me, 
that  would  be  too  unkind — let  me  kiss  you. — Your  eyes! 
Your  hair !  Your  mouth ! 

THERESE.  [Calmly  disengaging  herself.]  Georges, 
you're  mad.  [She  stands  up  and  goes  to  the  window.] 
Heavens !  Suzanne ! 

GEORGES.     Suzanne  ? 

THERESE.  She's  opening  the  outer  door. — Good-by,  I'll 
go  out  through  the  garden. 

GEORGES.     Don't  you  want  to  see  her  ? 


THE  PARDON  157 

THERESE.     No. 

GEORGES.  [Taking  hold  of  her  wrists.]  To-morrow, 
Therese. 

THERESE.     No. 

GEORGES.  [Still  holding  her.]  I  wish  it.  Please, 
Therese ! 

THERESE.      [As  if  saying,  Yes.]      No,  no!     [She  leaves.] 

GEORGES.  [Alone.  He  arranges  the  chairs,  which  are 
in  disorder,  then  sits  at  the  desk,  and  pretends  to  be  work- 
ing. Enter  SUZANNE.] 

GEORGES.      [Amiably.]     Did  you  have  a  pleasant  walk? 

SUZANNE.     Yes,  dear. 

GEORGES.     Where  did  you  go? 

SUZANNE.  Nowhere  in  particular,  at  first;  then  I  went 
to  see  Therese,  and  she  wasn't  in. 

GEORGES.     Did  you  do  any  shopping? 

SUZANNE.  No,  I  was  afraid  I'd  be  tempted.  You  don't 
seem  to  believe  it,  but  I've  become  a  very  economical  house- 
keeper. You  ought  to  see  my  accounts ! 

GEORGES.  I  have.  You're  a  good  little  wife,  Suzanne, 
and  I  love  you  dearly —  Why,  what's  the  matter? 

SUZANNE.  It's  been  so  long  since  you  have  spoken  to  me 
like  that !  But  I'm  so  glad ! 

GEORGES.     I  blame  you  for  one  thing  only. 

SUZANNE.      [Nervously.]     What? 

GEORGES.  You  are  likely  to  become  too  economical. 
[Looking  at  her.]  What's  that  dress?  That's  not  gay 
enough,  you  know !  I  have  noticed  that  you  dress  nowadays 
so  severely! 

SUZANNE.      [Delighted.]      Did  you  notice  that? 

GEORGES.  I  like  to  see  you  beautiful,  well  dressed,  the 
way  you  used  to  be;  we  can  afford  it,  thank  God!  I  want 
you  to  be  a  credit  to  me. —  This  room,  for  instance,  I 
can't  imagine  why  I  spoke  as  I  did  about  it!  It's  very 


158  JULES  LEMAITRE 

pretty  and  nicely  arranged.  Why,  what  more  natural  than 
that  a  woman  of  your  age ? 

SUZANNE.  [During  the  last  speech  she  has  found 
THERESE'S  veil  on  a  chair.]  And  what  have  you  been  doing 
while  I  was  away? 

GEORGES.  I — ?  I've  read,  worked — you  see?  [He 
moves  some  papers  about  on  the  desk.] 

SUZANNE.     You  weren't  disturbed? 

GEORGES.  I  tell  you  I  was  working, — did  a  lot.  I  got 
hold  of  a  splendid  idea 

SUZANNE.     Were  you  working  all  the  time? 

GEORGES.     Nearly. 

SUZANNE.     Nearly  ? 

GEORGES.  What  do  you  mean  with  your  questions  ?  [He 
turns  about,  and  sees  the  veil  in  SUZANNE'S  hands.]  Oh, 
that  veil ? 

SUZANNE.     Why  didn't  you  tell  me  Therese  was  here? 

GEORGES.  And  why  do  you  ask  such  questions?  Yes, 
Therese  was  here,  she  came  to  see  you — what  of  it?  What 
is  there  so  extraordinary  about  that? 

SUZANNE.     Nothing — unless 

GEORGES.     Unless  ? 

SUZANNE.  Unless  it's  your  saying  nothing  about  it,  and 
the  temper  with  which  you  answer  my  very  natural 
questions. 

GEORGES.  Come,  Suzanne,  we're  not  going  to  change 
parts  at  this  stage  of  the  game,  are  we?  You're  not  going 
to  give  us  a  scene  of  jealousy?  To  begin  with,  I  don't 
deserve  it,  and  even  if  I  did 

SUZANNE.  Stop  right  there,  Georges.  [With  a  great 
effort.]  No,  I'm  not  jealous;  I  know  Therese,  and  I  am 
positive  that  she  would  never  wrong  me;  I  shall  never  for- 
get what  a  friend  she  has  been  to  us.  I  know  very  well 
what  you  think  of  her,  and  I  have  no  reason  to  complain ;  I 


THE  PARDON  159 

shall  try  to  be  as  good  as  she  is,  that's  all. — Only,  if  I  might 
ask  one  thing  of  you?  Don't  conceal  anything  from 
me 

GEORGES.     But,  I 

SUZANNE.  I  understand:  you  have  nothing  to  conceal, 
I'm  the  blunderer,  it's  my  fault.  But  bear  in  mind  what 
I  say — I'm  putting  you  so  high  on  your  pedestal,  my  love 
for  you  is  so  mingled  with  respect  and  confidence !  Even 
when  you  are  a  little  disagreeable,  you  are  my  only  pro- 
tection, my  surety,  so  that  if  I  came  to  lose  my  blind, 
child's  faith  in  you,  I  think  the  earth  would  give  way 
under  me  and  I  couldn't  bear  to  live ! 

GEORGES.  My,  what  big  talk,  my  dear!  Come,  it's  all 
over,  let's  say  nothing  more  about  it.  [He  paces  back  and 
forth.]  We  must  be  mad,  or  going  mad!  Taking  things 
tragically  that  are  hardly  worth  talking  about!  You  might 
think  we  were  the  only  ones  this  had  ever  happened  to  since 
the  beginning  of  the  world !  Oh,  Lord,  if  we  knew  the 
history  of  every  family !  This  is  perfectly  ridiculous,  turn- 
ing everything  into  "  domestic  drama."  Listen,  let's  have 
a  truce:  what's  passed  is  over  and  done  with.  Now  I'm  cer- 
tain of  you;  you're  no  longer  a  child.  You  may  rest 
assured,  I  sha'n't  trouble  you  any  more.  But  for  your  part, 
you  too  must  be  reasonable ;  you  ought  to  forget,  since  I 
don't  want  to  remember.  Then,  if  you  want  to  please  me, 
don't  put  me  on  so  high  a  pedestal.  I'm  only  a  man — 
and  what  is  there  remarkable  in  a  man? —  I'm  something 
of  a  dreamer:  I  took  love,  and  marriage,  and  all  that,  too 
seriously !  But  I  tell  you  we  mustn't  ask  too  much  of  life ; 
I'm  doing  very  well  with  what  it  affords  me.  We  shall 
live  comfortably — like  two  good  friends — just  like  Jacques 
and  Therese;  look  at  those  two  philosophers  who  know  the 
art  of  living! —  Now  that  we  have  agreed — let's  kiss  and 
make  up !  [He  goes  out  humming.] 


160  JULES  LEMAITRE 

SUZANNE.  [Alone.]  Oh!  I  loved  him  more  when  he 
was  disagreeable! 

[End  of  Act  II.] 

ACT  III. 

[A  month  later;  same  scene  as  in  the  preceding  act.] 

THERESE.  [Entering.]  Yes,  it's  I.  You  don't  seem 
glad  to  see  me? 

GEORGES.     Didn't  you  get  my  letter? 

THERESE.     That  was  the  reason  I  came. 

GEORGES.      [Nervously.]      But,  Suzanne ? 

THERESE.  Don't  worry,  she  hasn't  returned  yet. — Be- 
sides, the  infrequency  of  my  visits  these  last  six  weeks  must 
have  given  her  a  hint.  But  for  that  matter  there's  no  rea- 
son why  I  shouldn't  be  here. 

GEORGES.  Well,  do  you  want  to  wait  for  her?  I  have 
to  go  to  the  factory.  [Looking  at  the  clock.]  I'm  late 
already.  [She  bars  his  may,  as  lie  is  about  to  leave.] 

THERESE.  [Ironically.]  Now  that's  too  bad,  but  you're 
going  to  listen  to  me. — Don't  be  afraid,  I  sha'n't  keep  you 
long — only — see  here — you've  written  three  times  breaking 
your  engagements  with  me.  Oh,  you  give  the  best  reasons 
in  the  world  each  time !  I  have  come  merely  to  ask  whether 
you  are  in  earnest;  Georges,  tell  me  the  truth — I  want  it. 

GEORGES.  There's  nothing  wrong:  it  happens  that  I  am 
not  always  at  liberty  to  do  what  I  want  to  do;  you  see, 
neither  you  nor  I  are  free,  and  we  must  be  very  careful, 
and 

THERESE.     Now,  tell  me  the  truth 

GEORGES.     I  have. 

THERESE.     No. 

GEORGES.     Well,  I  should  never  have  told  you  if  you 


THE  PARDON  161 

hadn't  been  so  anxious  to  know :  I  am  uneasy  about  Suzanne ; 
I  don't  know  what  she  suspects  or  guesses,  but  there's  no 
doubt  she  is  very  unhappy;  I  know  she  cries  a  good  deal 
when  I'm  not  here. — And  when  I  see  her  poor  little  face 
so  changed,  and  her  eyes  full  of  tears — well — I  begin  to 
pity  her — and — I'm  not  a  brute,  at  any  rate. 

THERESE.     Is  that  all? 

GEORGES.  You  ought  to  understand  that,  Therese.  Why, 
even  Jacques  must  have  some  vague  suspicion 

THERESE.  Never  mind  about  Jacques.  It's  rather  late 
to  think  of  that. — I  have  already  told  you  that  he  has  abso- 
lute confidence  in  me,  and  I've  been  decent  enough  to  spare 
him  any  anxiety.  You  needn't  worry. 

GEORGES.     Poor  fellow! 

THERESE.  Do  you  pity  him,  too?  You  pity  everybody, 
but  what  about  me? 

GEORGES.  [Absorbed  in  his  orvn  thoughts.]  I  must 
confess  that  when  I  meet  Jacques  I  feel  horribly  em- 
barrassed.— And  then,  I  remember  one  thing  that  used 
to  incense  me  more  than  anything  else,  and  that  was  the 
thought  of  that  other — you  know? 

THERESE.     Yes,  Suzanne's  lover. 

GEORGES.  To  think  that  that  fellow  was  vile  enough, 
at  the  very  moment  he  was  betraying  me,  to  shake  my 
hand!  And  here  I  am  doing  precisely  the  same  thing — 
Oh,  it's  despicable! 

THERESE.  And  do  you  think  you're  doing  the  decent 
thing  by  me? 

GEORGES.     But  I 

THERESE.  Do  you  realize  that  you  have  just  said  about 
as  cruel  a  thing  as  a  man  can  say  to  a  woman? 

GEORGES.     I  ? 

THERESE.  Yes,  you  have.  If  you  truly  loved  me,  you 
wouldn't  suffer  from  those  things  you  complain  of. 


162  JULES  LEMAITRE 

GEORGES.  But  I  have  always  loved  you,  Therese; 
you  have  been  a  true  friend  to  me,  haven't  you?  a  ref- 
uge? 

THERESE.     Yes — I  have  been. 

GEORGES.  And  you  still  are,  Therese;  and  those  com- 
plaints are  merely  proofs.  If  I  tell  you  everything,  it  is 
merely  because  I  am  yours,  all  yours,  with  my  weakness 
and  troubles,  and  because  your  own  goodness  has  taught 
me  to  place  my  burdens  on  your  back.  Just  think  what  a 
fearful  trial  all  this  is  to  me — and  it's  all  my  own — our 
fault. 

THERESE.  Yes,  my  fault,  isn't  it? — Tell  me,  you  think 
I'm  to  blame?  You  are  angry  because  I  was  willing  to 
sacrifice  my  husband  and  my  friend;  in  other  words,  I 
was  willing  to  do  what  you  implored  me  to  do ! — Or  rather, 
you  believe  I  led  you  astray,  and  you  take  me  to  task  for 
making  you  fail  in  your  duty  to  your  wife,  to  have  laid 
snares  for  your  virtuous  self. — Really,  you  were  intended 
to  be  virtuous;  I  mean  it,  seriously.  It's  a  pity  you  didn't 
find  it  out  sooner. 

GEORGES.  Therese !  Don't  talk  like  that,  or  I'll  end  by 
believing  you  are  tired  of  me. 

THERESE.     You'd  prefer  that,  wouldn't  you? 

GEORGES.  What  possible  proofs  do  you  want  of  my  love, 
Therese?  Listen  to  me:  as  long  as  we  stay  here,  we're 
going  to  be  miserable.  Do  you  want  to  go  away  ?  Shall  we 
go,  far  away? 

THERESE.      [Ironically.]      Thank  you,  Georges. 

GEORGES.     What  do  you  mean? 

THERESE.  How  you  would  hate  me  if  I  said  yes !  Well, 
you're  doing  your  best,  and  I  thank  you  for  the  effort — 
for  the  lie. —  My  poor  friend,  we  were  happy  only  once: 
the  first  time  we  were  together — do  you  remember?  We 
cried  like  two  fools — it  was  enchanting!  Next  day  it  was 


THE  PARDON  163 

all  over;  I  felt  that  you  were  angry  with  me  for  giving 
in  to  you.  You  didn't  remember  that,  although  I  was  weak 
— yes,  weak,  and  cowardly,  I'll  admit ! — I  wasn't  the 
tempter,  but  you;  it  was  you  who  wanted  it,  desired  it 
with  all  the  force  of  your  being, — desperately.  I  don't 
say  that  to  justify  myself:  it's  the  downright  truth,  re- 
member that;  and  I  don't  want  to  trouble  you  by  dwelling 
on  my  own  sacrifice;  that's  easy  enough  to  bear,  because 
I  love  you. —  I  was  so  peaceful  before  I  saw  you  again, 
my  life  was  so  happy  and  calm !  I  had  every  possible 
reason  to  go  on  in  the  same  way.  My  only  imaginable  ex- 
cuse— if  I  have  one  at  all — was  the  depth  and  permanence 
of  the  passion  I  thought  I  had  aroused  in  you — and  then 
almost  at  once  I  saw  we  were  mistaken.  So  here  I  am 
ruined  for  nothing:  you  are  no  better  off  and  I  am  very 
unhappy. 

GEORGES.  Don't  say  that,  Therese,  don't.  Forget  all 
I  have  told  you ;  the  words  simply  came.  I  don't  know  what 
was  the  matter  with  me  just  now. — I  love  you,  I  tell  you. 
[He  puts  his  arm  round  her  waist.]  Don't  mind  my  let- 
ter— I'll  go,  I'll  meet  you  there — I'll  arrange  it.  Don't 
imagine  I  suffer,  or  that  I'm  saying  this  to  keep  you  from 
suffering.  Look  at  me;  do  I  look  like  a  man  who  is  play- 
ing a  part?  Do  my  eyes  lie? — When  I  have  you  with  me 
again,  when  I  have  you  in  my  arms,  next  my  heart,  I  am 
yours,  and  only  yours,  as  at  first. — I'll  see  you  soon! 

THERESE.  Thank  you,  Georges,  for  your  charity.  I  am 
not  proud,  because  I  love  you. 

GEORGES.  I  don't  like  you  to  talk  like  that,  Therese, 
and  I  don't  want  you  to  be  unhappy. — No,  one  can't  live 
without  doing  harm  to  some  one. — Soon,  then,  dearest? 

THERESE.     Yes. 

GEORGES.     Will  you  stay? 

THERESE.     Yes,  I  want  to  see  Suzanne. 


164  JULES  LEMAITRE 

GEORGES.     Why  ? 

THERESE.     I  don't  know;  I  want  to  see  her. 

GEORGES.  Perhaps  you're  right.  [He  hesitates  a  mo- 
ment and  goes  out.] 

THERESE.  [Alone.]  So  that's  it? — After  a  week! — 
what  a  fool  I  am !  Why  couldn't  I  see  that  what  he  loved 
in  me  was  himself,  was  the  sweet  sensation  of  confessing! 
But  why  couldn't  I  leave  him?  Why  did  I  force  him  to  go 
on  lying,  poor  soul !  If  I  only  had  the  courage !  This  last 
week,  it  seems  as  though  I  have  been  another  person !  How 
can  I  forget,  and  become  the  woman  I  was  before !  How 
can  I  prevent  those  who  are  innocent  from  suffering! — 
[Enter  SUZANNE.]  Hello,  Suzanne,  are  you  surprised  to 
see  me? 

SUZANNE.     A  little. 

THERESE.  You've  come  to  see  me  several  times  when  I 
wasn't  in.  I've  been  very  busy  lately. —  Are  you  vexed 
with  me?  [She  attempts  to  kiss  SUZANNE.] 

SUZANNE.     [Turning  away.]     No,  please. 

THERESE.     Why  not? 

SUZANNE.  Do  you  ask? — It  wasn't  I  you  came  to  see, 
was  it  ?  As  to  my  husband,  you  see  him  quite  enough  away 
from  here.  What  did  you  come  for? 

THERESE.     What  do  you  mean? 

SUZANNE.  I  detest  you — you  are  my  husband's  mis- 
tress ! 

THERESE.     I  ? 

SUZANNE.  Don't  bother  to  lie.  I  know;  I  have  done 
everything  in  order  to  know.  I've  spied  on  you,  inter- 
cepted letters — it  wasn't  very  hard  to  do — you  didn't  take 
overmuch  trouble  to  conceal  your  tracks!  Do  you  recall 
how  virtuously  indignant  you  were  two  months  ago?  Well, 
now  you  know?  Ha!  ha!  It's  funny!  Now  preach  to 
me! 


THE  PARDON  165 

THERESE.     What  are  you  going  to  do? 

SUZANNE.  Leave,  to-night.  I  have  secretly  made  all 
my  arrangements.  You  are  perfectly  free,  you'll  have  the 
field  open  to  yourselves  in  an  hour's  time.  That's  why  I 
don't  show  you  the  door. —  Ha !  those  good,  honest  people 
who  were  so  nice  and  condescending  to  me!  You  make  a 
fine  showing  when  you  dabble  in  other  people's  affairs. — 
I  at  least  didn't  make  virtue  my  specialty,  and  I  wasn't 
hypocritical.  But  you  have  not  merely  deceived  your  hus- 
band— as  I  have, — you  have  betrayed  me,  in  the  most  per- 
fidious and  hateful  way — with  delicate  lies.  At  the  very 
moment  when  your  virtuous  self  was  preaching  to  me,  you 
were  doing  something  a  hundred  times  worse  than  I! 
You  reconciled  me  to  my  husband  only  in  order  to  steal 
him  from  me!  Keep  him!  After  all,  I  owe  to  you  a 
feeling  to  which  I  thought  I'd  lost  my  right — disgust! — 

THERESE.      [Gently.]      Is  that  all? 

SUZANNE.  I  was  so  happy  when  I  came  back — I  was 
a  fool ! — so  repentant,  so  convinced  I  was  in  the  wrong ! 
The  worst  of  all  is  that  you  exploited  my  repentance. 
You  were  both  so  sure  I  would  leave  you  in  peace !  Oh,  to 
see  all,  guess  all,  and  not  even  have  the  right  to  com- 
plain out  loud !  Once  I  summoned  up  courage,  once  only ! 
And  how  he  took  it,  how  he  humiliated  me !  Oh,  I've  paid 
dearly  for  my  slip 

THERESE.     Suzanne ! 

SUZANNE.  Why  did  you  do  it?  Why  did  you  bring  me 
here,  only  to  torture  me  ? — Liar !  Liar  and  hypocrite ! 

THERESE.  No,  not  a  hypocrite,  I  swear!  Anything  but 
that !  It  happened — how  can  I  tell  you  ?  Somehow  he 
was  so  troubled,  and — something  drove  him,  after  he  had 
been  deceived,  to  deceive  in  his  turn. 

SUZANNE.  I'm  not  speaking  of  him.  I  don't  accuse  him ; 
he  merely  paid  me  back  in  my  own  coin.  I'm  leaving 


166  JULES  LEMAITRE 

him  for  that — but  you! —  If  he  behaved  badly  toward 
me,  he  may  still  have  loved  me — why  did  you  take  him 
from  me? 

THERESE.  I  didn't;  I  allowed  myself  to  be  dragged 
into  his  own  whirlpool  of  trouble,  to  soothe  his  other  love, 
that  had  been  killed.  We  sympathized  together  too  much, 
talked  too  much  about  you !  Yes,  about  you ! — We  had  too 
much  to  say  of  love,  passion,  jealousy !  It  was  playing  with 
fire !  We  were  too  constantly  in  one  another's  company. 
Our  intimacy,  engendered  by  speaking  of  you,  was  not 
realized  until  it  was  too  late. — Well — there's  nothing  very 
original  about  it — it  seemed — fated — you  know. 

SUZANNE.  And  I  had  such  confidence  in  you !  You  were 
more  than  a  friend  to  me,  more  than  a  sister.  When  I  was 
in  trouble,  I  never  thought  twice  about  coming  to  you — 
you  were  everything  to  me. — And  it's  you — !  Therese, 
Therese,  what  have  you  done ! 

THERESE.  [Kneeling.}  You  are  right,  Suzette.  I've 
called  myself  everything  you  have  called  me,  and  I'm  ready 
to  hear  more  from  you,  if  you  feel  the  better  for  it. — 
When  I  see  you  cry  and  listen  to  you,  I  take  courage. 
Take  advantage  of  it  now,  I  may  be  weak  to-morrow,  when 
you  aren't  here,  before  my  eyes.  Tell  me  what  to  do — I'll 
do  whatever  you  say.  Now  I'll  tell  you  just  what  has 
happened:  I  still  love  him.  [Gesture  from  SUZANNE.]  It's 
not  my  fault !  You  yourself  have  loved  him,  deeply !  But 
he  doesn't  love  me  any  longer,  perhaps  he  never  did. — You 
believe  me,  don't  you?  People  don't  confess  such  things 
unless —  Do  you  want  to  see  his  latest  letter?  I  can  show 
it  to  you:  there's  nothing  tender  or  compromising  in  it. 
Here  it  is;  he  wrote  me  that  he  would  not  meet  me.  That 
was  the  third,  and  in  each  he  wrote  the  same  thing.  That 
was  the  reason  I  came  here;  I  wanted  to  speak  with  him. — 
What  horrible  things  we  said  to  each  other  just  now!  You 


THE  PARDON  167 

don't  believe  me?  It's  true,  though.  But  you'll  believe 
my  deeds:  I'm  the  one  who  is  going  away  to-morrow,  this 
evening,  if  I  can.  I'll  find  some  excuse — traveling  for  my 
health,  anything — Jacques  is  used  to  my  caprices,  and 
he'll  do  whatever  I  tell  him,  the  dear  boy !  When  I'm 
gone,  you  will  go  back  to  your  husband. 

SUZANNE.  What  difference  will  your  going  make?  You 
can't  give  me  back  my  husband — you've  changed  him  into 
another  man,  you  have  shattered  my  faith  in  him.  He  will 
begin  again.  Haven't  I  given  him  the  right  to  betray 
me  any  number  of  times?  What  sort  of  life  shall  we  lead? 
No,  I'd  rather  go — I'll  go. 

THERESE.  All  right.  Just  one  word.  Do  you  still  love 
him? 

Suz  AN  NE  .     Whom  ? 

THERESE.     Your  husband. 

SUZANNE.     I  hate  him. 

THERESE.  Do  you  love  him?  Answer  me. —  If  he 
still  loved  you,  would  you  love  him  in  return  ? 

SUZANNE.     He  doesn't  love  me. 

THERESE.  You've  answered. — We  shall  soon  know 
whether  he  loves  you.  Go  away,  you  are  right.  Will  he 
let  you  go  or  not — that  is  the  question.  If  he  keeps  you — 
Good-by,  Suzanne,  I'm  sure  now  you'll  forgive  me.  [She 
leaves.] 

SUZANNE.     [Alone. — She  writes.] 

GEORGES.      [Entering.]      To  whom  are  you  writing? 

SUZANNE.      [Hesitating  a  moment.]      To  you.     Read. 

GEORGES.  [After  having  read  the  letter.]  Do  you  want 
to  go? 

SUZANNE.     Yes. 

GEORGES.     You  have  decided  ? 

SUZANNE.     Yes. 

GEORGES.     Your  reasons ? 


168  JULES  LEMAITRE 

SUZANNE.  What's  the  use?  What  difference  would  that 
make? 

GEORGES.     Tell  me,  anyway. 

SUZANNE.  It's  very  simple.  I  once  had  faith  in  you; 
I  have  lost  it.  Everything  has  failed  me — my  life  is  over. 
I  don't  care  what  happens  to  me — only  I  know  that  every 
hour  I  spend  with  you  now  is  torture. 

GEORGES.     Yes,  I  know. 

SUZANNE.  I  can't  explain  what  you  have  been  for  me. 
When  I  came  back  to  you,  I  was  almost  too  happy  and 
full  of  love — I  hoped!  I  thought  you  were  so  good,  so 
great !  I  gave  you  my  love  to  keep.  You  took  it  only 
to  break  it.  I  was  despised  and  trodden  in  the  dust  at 
the  very  time  perhaps  that  I  was  most  worth  loving. 

GEORGES.     Yes — it  was  the  same  with  me. 

SUZANNE.  I  felt  the  sting  of  betrayal  by  the  person  I 
most  respected  and  loved — it  was  so  sudden !  Abominable ! 
You  see,  I  must  go. 

GEORGES.  No.  I  too  have  suffered  what  you  have  just 
described ;  and  yet — I  tried  to  be  tender  to  you. — Here,  two 
months  ago — I  can  still  see  you — you  came  to  me,  trem- 
bling and  very  humble,  and  you  said  to  me:  "  Let  me  live 
near  you ;  you  needn't  look  at  me,  only  let  me  be  with  you." 
And  I  took  you  again,  Suzanne 

SUZANNE.  Yes,  you  could,  then,  because  you  were  bet- 
ter than  I.  I  inspired  as  much  pity  as  anger  in  you.  But 
for  you  to  betray  me — and  with  whom! — after  having  for- 
given me !  It  was  betrayal  twice  over !  You  two  were 
worse  than  I  had  been,  for  I  had  such  confidence  in  and 
respect  for  you  both !  No,  it  isn't  the  same  thing. — I  made 
you  suffer,  but  you  have  crushed  me — I  don't  know  what's 
the  matter  with  me. —  Good-by,  Georges! 

GEORGES.  You  are  going  to  stay — you  must,  I  insist 
on  it.  No  matter  what  you  say,  forgiveness  is  more  diffi- 


THE  PARDON  169 

cult  for  you  than  it  was  for  me.  I  thought — as  men  do — 
that  I  should  appear  ridiculous  in  forgiving  you.  And  you 
don't  know  how  that  feels  to  a  man. — You  will  forgive 
me,  because  I  adore  you — I  never  loved  any  one  but  you. — 
At  this  very  moment,  some  one  is  waiting  for  me — some  one 
who  deserves  pity,  too,  and  whom  neither  you  nor  I  have 
a  right  to  despise. —  Well,  the  time  for  the  appointment 
is  past,  and,  you  see,  I'm  still  here,  at  your  feet !  Do  you 
still  think  you  have  the  right  to  leave  me? 

SUZANNE.     But  what  about  to-morrow? 

GEORGES.     To-morrow,  let  us  begin  again  to  be  happy. 

SUZANNE.  The  day  after  I  came  back  to  you  before, 
you  called  to  mind  what  you  had  sworn  to  forget,  and  you 
made  me  suffer  agony.  Now  there  are  two  of  us  to  call  up 
old  memories  and  spy  on  each  other;  each  of  us  will  be  on 
the  rack.  Do  you  want  that? 

GEORGES.  Oh,  Suzanne,  don't  you  see  that  now  it  is  pos- 
sible to  forget?  I  don't  think  that,  in  spite  of  all,  I  am 
worse  than  many  another,  but  do  you  want  to  know  the 
absolute  truth?  I  have  gone  through  the  tortures  of  hell, 
in  flesh  and  blood — it  was  more  than  pride,  too.  I  see  it 
all  to-day.  But  the  worst  of  all  was  that  the  visible  image 
of  that  past  was  always  present.  And  for  that  very  reason, 
after  my  misbehavior,  all  my  anger  against  you  has  van- 
ished, as  if  vengeance  had  been  done. — No,  it's  not  pretty 
at  all ! — And  the  evil  is  contagious :  what  you  did  fascinated 
and  corrupted  me. — But,  you  see,  I  no  longer  have  the  right 
to  be  proud  and  severe  with  you :  we  are  even.  It's  not  nice, 
it's  shameful  to  have  to  admit  it — especially  for  me — and 
yet  I  say  it  with  a  sigh  of  relief. — It's  a  binding  link,  you 
see,  to  have  suffered  for  each  other,  and  to  have  been 
equally  to  blame. — Now,  as  I  speak  of  it,  it  seems  so  long, 
long  ago!  There  will  remain  just  a  tinge  of  melancholy, 
and  our  tenderness  will  be  a  little  more  serious,  indulgent. — 


170  JULES  LEMAITRE 

I  love  you,  Suzette. — Come  to  me!  Come  to  my  arms,  as 
you  did  before  this  bad  dream. — Shall  we  begin  to  live 
once  more?  Will  you — dearest? 

SUZANNE.     [Throwing  her  arms  about  his  neck.]     Ah, 
Georges! — God  have  mercy  on  us! 

(The  End.) 


THE  OTHER  DANGER 

A  Comedy  in  Four  Acts 
By 

MAURICE  DONNAY 

Translated  from  the  French  by 
CHARLOTTE  TENNEY  DAVID 


CHARACTERS 

FREYDIERES 

ETIENNE  JADAIN 

M.  JADAIN,  his  father 

LUYNAIS 

HEYBENS 

CLEMENTIER 

ERNSTEIN 

PRABERT 

A  YOUNG  MAN 

DE  MEILLAN 

CLAIRE  (MME.  ETIENNE  JADAIN) 

MME.  ERNSTEIN 

MME.  JADAIN,  Etienne's  mother 

MME.  CHENEVAS 

MME.  LACORTE 

MADELEINE 

MARIA 

MLLE.  CHOSCONESCO 


THE  OTHER  DANGER 
ACT  I. 

[Paris,  in  the  month  of  June,  at  the  home  of  the  ERN- 
STEINS.  The  scene  is  a  garden  with  large  trees,  a 
table,  and  some  light-colored  wicker  armchairs. 
Through  the  trees  is  seen  the  front  of  the  house,  and 
through  the  windows  a  brilliantly  lighted  and  elegantly 
furnished  salon;  near  one  of  the  windows  stands  a 
piano  covered  with  an  old  brocade.  A  French  window 
and  a  flight  of  five  or  six  steps,  which  extends  the 
whole  width  of  the  house,  lead  from  the  salon  to  the 
garden. 

When  the  curtain  rises  the  butler  is  seen  putting 
upon  the  table  a  tray  with  a  coffee  service.  From  the 
French  window  of  the  salon  descend  to  the  garden 
MME.  ERNSTEIN,  on  the  arm  of  ETIENNE  JADAIN; 
CLAIRE  JADAIN,  on  the  arm  of  ERNSTEIN,  and  behind 
them  FREYDIERES  and  DE  MEILLAN.] 

MME.  ERNSTEIN.  I  have  had  the  coffee  served  in  the 
garden,  as  I  thought  you  would  rather  take  it  outside  such 
a  hot  evening. 

ETIENNE.     Excellent  idea. 

CLAIRE.  It's  a  delight  to  have  a  park  in  the  very  center 
of  Paris. 

ERNSTEIN.     A  park!    O,  it's  hardly  a  garden! 

CLAIRE.     It's  very  large. 

173 


174  MAURICE  DONNAY 

ERNSTEIN.  It's  very  little.  You  can't  see  the  walls 
because  of  the  trees;  but  they  are  not  far  away. 

ETIENNE.     I  should  be  contented  with  it  as  it  is. 

CLAIRE.     You  have  some  magnificent  trees. 

MME.  ERNSTEIN.     Yes,  and  a  cherry  tree,  too. 

ETIENNE.     A  real  cherry  tree? 

MME.  ERNSTEIN.  A  real  cherry  tree  that  has  real  cher- 
ries. We  have  had  twenty-one  this  year. 

ETIENNE.     How  many? 

MME.  ERNSTEIN.  Twenty-one.  My  husband  has  calcu- 
lated that  each  cherry  has  cost  us  five  thousand  francs. 
Isn't  that  so,  Leon? 

ERNSTEIN.  Yes,  five  thousand  three  hundred  and  sixty- 
five  francs,  to  be  exact. 

ETIENNE.  At  any  rate,  you  should  be  very  happy  that 
it  has  given  you  any  cherries  at  all. 

CLAIRE.     If  you  can  call  that  giving. 

ERNSTEIN.  [Repeating  complacently.]  Yes,  if  you 
can  call  that  giving.  [Patting  JADAIN  on  the  shoulder.] 
Good  old  Jadain,  it's  a  pleasure  to  see  him  again — this  old 
schoolmate.  [To  MME.  JADAIN.]  Do  you  come  to  Paris 
often,  Madame? 

CLAIRE.  Often,  O  no !  We  come  once  a  year  about  this 
time,  to  see  my  sister,  who  is  married. 

ERNSTEIN.  [To  JADAIN.]  So  you  come  every  year  to 
Paris  and  I  never  see  you.  In  the  first  years  after  leaving 
the  "  Tech."  we  used  to  see  each  other  pretty  often.  You 
never  came  to  Paris  without  coming  to  shake  hands  with 
me.  From  time  to  time  you  used  to  send  me  news  of  your- 
self. Then  suddenly,  no  more  news,  no  more  anything — 
This  time,  if  I  hadn't  met  you  by  the  merest  chance 

ETIENNE.  What  can  you  expect,  old  fellow?  One 
drops  out  of  sight — inevitably.  Then  you  were  away  a  long 
time  in  Tunis. 


THE  OTHER  DANGER  175 

ERNSTEIN.     That's  true. 

ETIENNE.  Then  I  live  at  Grenoble — and,  besides,  I'm 
married. 

ERNSTEIN.     What  a  reason!     I'm  married  myself. 

ETIENNE.  Our  situations  are  so  different.  You  have 
got  on  in  the  world — good  for  you!  I  knew  that  you 
were  putting  through  big  deals,  that  you  were  launched 
in  important  undertakings,  and  I  used  to  say  to  my- 
self  

ERNSTEIN.  Foolish  things,  probably.  You  knew  well 
enough  I  should  always  have  the  greatest  pleasure  in 
seeing  an  old  schoolfellow  like  you — especially  if  he  was 
a  friend — for,  after  all,  we  were  very  intimate  at  the 
"  Tech."  {At  this  moment  MME.  ERNSTEIN  offers  JADAIN 
a  glass  of  liqueur.] 

MME.  ERNSTEIN.  Monsieur  Jadain,  some  chartreuse, 
curacao,  cognac? 

ETIENNE.     Cognac,  please. 

ERNSTEIN.  [To  CLAIRE.]  I  regret,  Madame,  your  hus- 
band's delay  in  coming  to  see  me,  the  more  so  because  it 
has  deferred  the  pleasure  of  meeting  you. 

CLAIRE.     You  are  very  kind. 

ERNSTEIN.  I  didn't  know  Jadain  had  married  so  charm- 
ing a  woman,  so  extremely  charming —  So  you  come 
to  Paris  only  once  a  year? 

CLAIRE.     Yes. 

ERNSTEIN.  That's  not  very  often.  You  must  miss  Paris, 
don't  you? 

CLAIRE.     Not  at  all. 

ERNSTEIN.     Anyhow,  it  misses  you. 

CLAIRE.     You  think  so? 

ERNSTEIN.  No  question  about  it.  But  you  are  a 
Parisian? 

CLAIRE.     No.    I  am  from  Vendee. 


176  MAURICE  DONNAY 

ERNSTEIN.  Well,  I  congratulate  Vendee.  [CLAIRE 
smiles  and  turns  to  another  group.] 

MME.  ERNSTEIN.  Do  you  feel  the  breeze?  It  begins 
to  be  a  little  cooler. 

ERNSTEIN.  [To  his  wife.]  My  dear,  you  ought  to  put 
something  on  your  shoulders.  I'm  afraid  you  will  take  cold. 

DE  MEILLAN.  Your  husband  is  right,  Madame.  Don't 
forget  that  you  sing  Friday. 

MME.  ERNSTEIN.  [To  her  husband.]  That's  true. 
Will  you  have  some  one  tell  Armande  to  bring  me  my 
feather  boa?  [Addressing  CLAIRE.]  Are  you  not  afraid 
that  the  cool  air 

CLAIRE.     Thank  you;  there  is  no  danger. 

ETIENNE.     There's  no  danger — no  danger. 

FREYDIERES.  I  see,  Madame,  you  are  no  more  prudent 
than  when  you  were  a  girl. 

ETIENNE.  Ah,  when  she  was  a  girl  she  doubtless  obeyed 
her  parents;  but  I  haven't  any  authority  over  her. 

CLAIRE.  If  you  listen  to  my  husband's  complaints  you 
are  "in  for  it."  But  they  are  new  for  you;  for  me  they 
are  an  old  story.  I'm  going  away. 

FREYDIERES.     Stay  at  least  to  defend  yourself. 

CLAIRE.  I  prefer  to  count  on  you.  [She  joins  the 
group  formed  by  MME.  ERNSTEIN,  ERNSTEIN,  and  DE 
MEILLAN.] 

ETIENNE.  My  wife  didn't  think,  in  coming  here,  she 
would  find  a  childhood  friend. 

FREYDIERES.     Of  course  not. 

ETIENNE.     You  were  brought  up  together,  so  to  speak? 

FREYDIERE8.  Yes.  You  know  what  Jife  in  a  little 
town  in  the  provinces  is,  where  you  see  each  other  often — 
Our  parents'  houses  were  near  each  other — side  by  side,  in 
fact. 

ETIENNE.     Clisson  is  a  pretty  town. 


THE  OTHER  DANGER  177 

FREYDIERES.  It's  a  charming  old  town,  but,  unfortu- 
nately, it's  becoming  modern  so  fast ! 

ETIENNE.     You  were  not  at  our  wedding,  were  you? 

FREYDIERES.     No,  I  wasn't  there. 

ETIENNE.  I  thought  so.  I  don't  recall  having  seen 
you,  though  I  remember  very  well  having  been  introduced 
to  your  parents. 

FREYDIERES.  Yes,  I  was  at  Paris;  that  very  day  I  was 
taking  an  examination  in  law. 

ETIENNE.     Your  parents  are  well? 

FREYDIERES.     My  mother  is  dead. 

ETIENNE.  Well,  you've  become  pretty  well  known  since 
those  days. 

FREYDIERES.     [Modestly.]     Oh! 

ETIENNE.  Every  time  you  have  pleaded  a  much-talked- 
of  case  we  have  read  your  name  in  the  papers:  Attorney 
Freydieres !  and  I  have  said  to  my  wife,  "  You  see,  your 
childhood  friend  has  become  a  celebrated  lawyer."  [Mean- 
while ARMANDE,  her  maid,  has  brought  a  boa  and  placed  it 
around  the  shoulders  of  MME.  ERNSTEIN.] 

MME.  ERNSTEIN.  How  hot  it  has  been  to-day!  And 
we  are  not  through  with  it,  either.  It  looks  as  if  we  were 
going  to  have  an  abominable  summer. 

FREYDIERES.     How  is  that? 

MME.  ERNSTEIN.  Spots  have  been  seen  on  the 
sun. 

ERNSTEIN.     O,  the  nasty  fellow! 

MME.  ERNSTEIN.  It's  terrible  to  stay  in  Paris  in  such 
weather. 

CLAIRE.     Are  you  obliged  to  stay? 

MME.  ERNSTEIN.  Yes — that  is  to  say,  there  is  to  be  a 
charity  fete  at  the  end  of  the  week  at  the  home  of  the 
Duchess  de  Mortagne  and  a  garden  party  with  theatricals. 

FREYDIERES.     That  will  be  a  pleasure. 


178  MAURICE  DONNAY 

MME.  ERNSTEIN.  And  I  have  to  sing  a  duet  with  Mon- 
sieur de  Meillan.  After  that  I  go  to  the  country. 

FREYDIERES.  The  country — a  mere  notion !  Paris  is  a 
hundred  times  better,  with  such  a  house  as  you  have. 
What's  the  use  of  leaving  it  to  go  to  Touraine,  where  it  is 
much  warmer  than  here? 

MME.  ERNSTEIN.     That's  true. 

FREYDIERES.  And  this  evening;  see  how  calm  it  is,  what 
silence !  You  might  think  you  were  far  from  Paris.  You 
have  flowers,  trees — a  cherry  tree — and  you  hear  the  birds 
sing. 

ERNSTEIN.  We  have  also  three  goldfish  in  a  little  marble 
basin. 

FREYDIERES.  What  more  do  you  want?  That's  country 
enough. 

MME.  ERNSTEIN.     Do  you  love  goldfish,  Madame? 

CLAIRE.     Well,  I'm  not  carried  away  by  them ! 

MME.  ERNSTEIN.  I  adore  them;  I  dote  on  them;  I  think 
they  are  perfect  dears.  [Dreamily.  ]  Often  I  amuse  my- 
self for  hours  looking  at  them  and  wondering  what  they 
can  be  thinking  about. 

FREYDIERES.     And  you? 

MME.  ERNSTEIN.  I  think  you  are  insolent.  Do  you 
stay  in  Paris  for  some  time,  Madame? 

CLAIRE.     We  leave  to-morrow  morning. 

MME.  ERNSTEIN.  So  soon !  You  live  at  Grenoble,  I  be- 
lieve ? 

CLAIRE.     Yes,  Grenoble. 

MME.  ERNSTEIN.  I  don't  know  Grenoble  at  all.  Is  it 
pretty  ? 

CLAIRE.     Yes,  for  a  provincial  town. 

FREYDIERES.  They  manufacture  gloves  there,  and  they 
have  raised  a  statue  to  Monsieur  Jouvin,  while  they  have 
not  even  a  bust  of  Stendhal! 


THE  OTHER  DANGER  179 

MME.  ERNSTEIN.     What  about  it? 

FREYDIERES.     What  about  it?     That's  all. 

MME.  ERNSTEIN.  O,  I  thought  you  were  going  to  tell 
a  story. 

FREYDIERES.     You  may  be  sure  not. 

MME.  ERNSTEIN.     It's  odd  to  speak,  yet  say  nothing. 

FREYDIERES.     Isn't  it? 

MME.  ERNSTEIN.  And  must  you  go  away  to-raor- 
row? 

CLAIRE.  Yes,  my  husband  has  only  two  weeks  off;  he 
must  be  in  his  office  Friday  morning. 

ERNSTEIN.  [To  JADAIN.]  They  keep  you  pretty  hard 
at  work,  then? 

ETIENNE.  You're  right,  they  do.  I  have  just  one 
month's  vacation,  which  I  take  in  two  parts —  You  know 
very  well  what  a  big  concern  is ;  you  are  not  at  all  your  own 
master ;  you  must  be  there,  even  if  there  is  not  much  to  do ; 
above  all,  you  must  not  displease  the  chief. 

ERNSTEIN.  But  you  ought  not  to  tremble  any  more  be- 
fore them ;  you  ought  to  have  a  position  in  the  railroad  serv- 
ice which  would  give  you  more  freedom 

ETIENNE.  No,  not  at  all;  advancement  is  very  slow  in 
these  big  concerns  unless  you  have  some  "  pull."  Then  it 
goes  easily  enough.  O,  it's  not  a  brilliant  career — you  have 
many  disappointments  and  many  disillusionments. 

ERNSTEIN.    Are  you  still  making  bridges  ? 

ETIENNE.  Yes,  bridges,  stations,  freight  depots,  ware- 
houses— in  fact,  the  rough  drafts  for  all  the  work  in  my 
territory. 

ERNSTEIN.     Do  you  like  it? 

ETIENNE.  O,  not  extremely ;  it's  always  the  same  thing — 
mere  routine;  you  get  into  a  rut.  Without  being  envious,  I 
can't  help  saying  it's  not  worth  the  trouble  of  leading  my 
class  at  the  "  Tech.,"  only  to  be  outstripped  by  the  others. 


180  MAURICE  DONNAY 

ERNSTEIN.  That's  true — you  were  at  the  head  of  your 
class. 

ETIENNE.  Yes,  but  you  see  it  hasn't  done  me  much 
good. 

ERNSTEIN.  I  remember,  you  were  a  very  remarkable 
student.  By  the  way,  it  was  you  who  helped  me  with  my 
thesis,  and  it's  thanks  to  you  that  I  received  my  diploma 
of  engineer — next  to  the  lowest  in  the  class,  to  be  sure. 

FREYDIERES.     Ah,  so  you  were  not  the  lowest? 

ERNSTEIN.  Oh,  if  I  wasn't,  it  was  because  my  uncle 
belonged  to  the  board  of  trustees.  Out  of  consideration  for 
him 

FREYDIERES.  I  have  a  little  cousin  in  a  Catholic  college. 
He  is  always  the  twenty-second  in  a  class  of  twenty-three. 
One  day  I  asked  him  who  was  the  twenty-third.  He  replied 
that  it  was  a  boy  who  was  only  a  myth. 

ETIENNE.     How's  that? 

FREYDIERES.  The  good  fathers  had  invented  a  pupil  to 
save  my  little  cousin's  being  the  lowest.  In  this  way  the 
child  was  not  discouraged  and  his  parents  were  not  humili- 
ated. 

ERNSTEIN.     Well,  they  treated  me  like  your  little  cousin. 

FREYDIERES.     So  you  were  the  lowest? 

ETIENNE.     That  hasn't  hindered  you  from  succeeding. 

FREYDIERES.  Bless  me,  no !  otherwise  he  wouldn't  have 
boasted  of  it  with  so  much  zest. 

ERNSTEIN.     Zest? 

FREYDIERES.  Yes,  it's  perfectly  natural;  if  a  person  has 
passed  for  a  dunce  with  all  his  fellows,  he's  mighty  glad 
to  disprove  it,  especially  before  the  head  of  the  class. 

ETIENNE.  Especially  if  the  head  of  the  class  has  gone  to 
the  foot. 

FREYDIERES.  That's  not  an  absolute  truth;  but,  gen- 
erally, life  pays  little  heed  to  the  rank  given  in  school. 


THE  OTHER  DANGER  181 

Commencement,  as  the  name  implies,  is  not  the  finish,  but 
the  start.  It  has  always  reminded  me  of  a  bicycle  contest 
where  two  hundred  competitors  are  entered ;  they  have  to  be 
put  in  several  rows  and  draw  numbers  for  the  start ;  but  the 
last  row  has  just  as  many  chances  as  the  first,  for  the  course 
is  long  and  attended  with  all  sorts  of  difficulties:  rapid 
ascent,  dizzy  descent,  dangerous  turns,  and  the  like. 

ETIENNE.  There  is  necessarily,  nowadays,  much  over- 
crowding in  all  careers.  And  then,  above  all,  there  is  luck — 
luck !  To  think  of  the  rapid,  the  astounding  career  of  some 
of  the  fellows !  By  the  way,  do  you  remember  Devigny  ? 

ERNSTEIN.     Yes,  I  do. 

ETIENNE.     He  wasn't  a  wonder. 

ERNSTEIN.     I  don't  remember  him  as  a  wonder. 

FREYDIERES.     You  would  have,  certainly. 

ETIENNE.  Well,  here's  a  man  for  you — after  finishing 
school  he  got  a  job  in  Lille  as  draftsman  with  a  manufac- 
turer of  steam  engines,  who  had  some  daughters.  Devigny 
was  a  fine-looking  fellow.  The  eldest  daughter  took  notice 
of  him — even  a  little  too  much  notice — and  he  was  obliged 
to  marry  her. — The  father-in-law  has  died  since  and  his  son- 
in-law  is  now  at  the  head  of  a  splendid  factory. 

FREYDIERES.     Lucky  fellow! 

ETIENNE.  That's  a  fine  story,  I  know — a  fine  story; 
but  it's  simply  to  show  you  how  people  succeed  nowadays. 

ERNSTEIN.     You  mustn't  generalize. 

ETIENNE.  Devigny  made  the  best  of  his  fine  figure — 
but  how  explain  the  success  of  a  man  like  Harduc?  Think 
of  it,  Harduc!  the  last  person  in  the  world  you  would 
think  of! 

FREYDIERES.     Who  is  this  Harduc? 

ETIENNE.  Imagine  the  most  mediocre  boy,  who  didn't 
know  and  couldn't  understand  the  least  thing.  At  the 
last  Exposition,  by  means  of  intrigues  and  with  some 


182  MAURICE  DONNAY 

pull,  he  obtained  a  few  trifling  jobs;  among  others,  one  to 
build  a  waffle  stand,  which  he  put  on  a  rock  in  the  middle  of 
a  little  pond.  With  the  first  gust  of  wind  the  kiosk  tum- 
bled into  the  water.  Now  he  is  a  government  architect, 
decorated,  loaded  with  honors — all  because  he  is  his  father's 
son.  How  many  others  like  him  I  could  cite!  But,  you 
know,  you  have  only  to  run  over  the  names  in  the  Year  Book 
of  the  Alumni  Association — it's  most  enlightening. 

FREYDIERES.  The  Year  Book — I  believe  you.  It's  a 
fine  book,  full  of  marvelous  instruction.  By  observing  the 
place  where  the  others  are,  you  can  tell  exactly  where  you 
are  yourself.  Excellent  exercise  in  comparison !  One  is 
proud  tff  the  progress  one  has  made;  one  is  sorry  for  those 
who  have  remained  behind  in  an  inferior  situation — their 
proper  place.  One  pities  these,  but  one  is  indignant  at  those 
who  have  reached  the  highest  places — at  least  one  is  aston- 
ished, and  it's  the  sum  of  these  feelings — contempt,  egoism, 
jealousy,  and  even  hatred — which  constitutes,  properly 
speaking,  good  fellowship. 

ERNSTEIN.  There  is  some  feruth  in  what  you  say.  [A 
silence.] 

ETIENNE.  And  your  cousin,  the  contractor,  Georges 
Einstein;  what  has  become  of  him? 

ERNSTEIN.  My  poor  cousin  has  had  no  luck;  he  has  lost 
all  his  money;  besides,  he  has  no  health  and  so  is  unable 
to  get  on  his  feet  again. 

ETIENNE.     Ah?     It's  quite  recent? 

ERNSTEIN.     O,  about  two  months  ago. 

ETIENNE.     What  about  his  company? 

ERNSTEIN.  I  have  taken  it  over.  I  had  loaned  him  two 
hundred  thousand  francs.  I  didn't  care  to  lose  it,  and  so 
I  couldn't  let  him  fail.  Besides,  he  is  my  cousin;  we  have 
the  same  name.  It  was  the  only  means  of  saving  the  con- 
cern from  being  resold  on  disastrous  terms. 


THE  OTHER  DANGER  18S 

ETIENNE.     You  did  the  right  thing. 

ERNSTEIN.  So  now  you  see  me  at  the  head  of  the  steel 
works.  By  the  way,  I  have  to  find  somebody  to  take  charge 
of  the  technical  side  of  the  business,  for  I — you  know — 
You  don't  happen  to  know  any  one? 

ETIENNE.     Well,  no. 

ERNSTEIN.  I've  just  had  an  idea!  Since  you  don't  seem 
satisfied  with  your  situation  in  the  railroad  company,  why 
shouldn't  you  coroe  with  me? 

ETIENNE.     Come  with  you — how  ? 

ERNSTEIN.  As  associate  director.  You  would  have  a 
fixed  salary  and  a  share  in  the  profits.  I'm  sure  we  should 
agree.  Later  you  could  buy  me  out.  Well,  what  do  you 
say  to  that? 

ETIENNE.  I  don't  know —  Your  proposal  is  rather 
sudden.  [He  looks  at  CLAIRE.] 

ERNSTEIN.  You  look  at  your  wife —  You  are  right. 
One  must  always  look  at  one's  wife,  especially  when  she  is 
pretty.  Come,  now,  what  do  you  think  of  it,  Madame? 

CLAIRE.  O,  in  such  questions,  my  husband  is  the  only 
judge.  At  any  rate,  he  must  think  it  over. 

ERNSTEIN.  Think  over  what?  I  know  Jadain.  He's  an 
old  schoolmate,  a  friend.  I  know  his  worth. 

CLAIRE.  Do  you  think  this  new  kind  of  work  will  be 
suited  to  him?  It  requires  some  experience,  doesn't  it? 

ETIENNE.  But,  my  dear,  I  should  do  for  Ernstein  what  I 
have  been  doing  for  the  last  twelve  years  in  the  railroad 
business.  It's  the  same  kind  of  work —  It's  just  what  I'm 
doing  all  the  time ;  I  know  the  business. 

ERNSTEIN.  And  then,  with  you,  I  could  do  some  very 
interesting  things.  For  instance,  to  begin  with,  I'm  on  ex- 
ceDent  terms  with  Harduc. 

ETIENNE.     The  man  of  the  waffle-stand? 

ERNSTEIN.     Yes.     Through  him  I  shall  get  some  im- 


184  MAURICE  DONNAY 

portant  jobs  for  the  Exposition,  where  he's  one  of  the 
"  big  guns."  You  see,  it's  best  not  to  say  anything  bad 
about  him. 

ETIENNE.  [Very  sincerely-}  But  I  didn't  say  anything 
bad  about  him.  His  stand  fell  into  the  water;  that  might 
happen  to  any  one. 

ERNSTEIN.  I  say  again,  there  are  some  very  interest- 
ing things  to  do.  Come  with  me  to  my  room.  I'll  show 
you  the  plans.  Harduc  has  loaned  them  to  me  just  lately. 
You  can  look  them  over ;  that  won't  commit  you  to  anything. 

ETIENNE.  All  right.  [The  two  men  go  towards  the 
house,  still  talking.] 

[During  the  preceding  conversation  MME.  ERNSTEIN  and 
M.  DE  MEILLAN,  quite  apart  from  the  others,  have  kept  up 
a  continual  conversation  in  an  undertone.] 

FREYDIERES.  [To  CLAIRE.]  Do  you  know  that  Ern- 
stein  already  considers  the  matter  as  settled? 

CLAIRE.     He  is  going  a  little  fast. 

FREYDIERES.  He  is  like  that  in  everything.  When  his 
decisions  are  bad,  he  has  at  least  the  excuse  of  having  made 
them  quickly. 

CLAIRE.    That's  no  excuse. 

MME.  ERNSTEIN.  Why,  what  has  become  of  the  other 
gentlemen  ? 

FREYDIERES.  It's  surprising  how  you  follow  the  conver- 
sation ! 

MME.  ERNSTEIN.  I  wasn't  interested  in  what  you  were 
saying. 

FREYDIERES.  The  gentlemen  are  examining  the  plans 
for  the  next  Exposition.  Your  husband  has  some  great 
projects  in  mind. 

MME.  ERNSTEIN.  Ah!  [Silence.]  Look  here,  Meil- 
lan;  you  know  you  are  not  here  to  amuse  yourself.  We 
have  to  work. 


THE  OTHER  DANGER  185 

FREYDIERES.     What  are  you  going  to  do? 

MME.  ERNSTEIN.  We  are  going  to  rehearse  the  duet 
we  have  to  sing  Friday  at  the  Duchess  de  Mortagne's 
garden  party. 

FREYDIERES.     After  dinner!     You  won't  have  any  voice. 

MME.  ERNSTEIN.  Nevertheless,  we  must  rehearse;  we 
haven't  much  more  time — Tuesday,  Wednesday,  Thursday, 
Friday — only  four  days,  and  Meillan  is  never  free  during 
the  day.  You  can  never  put  your  hand  on  him. 

FREYDIERES.  It's  a  mystery  where  he  spends  his  after- 
noons. 

MME.  ERNSTEIN.  I'm  going  to  profit  by  his  being  here. 
[To  CLAIRE.]  You  see,  Madame,  I  don't  stand  on  cere- 
mony. Will  you  excuse  me? 

CLAIRE.     Certainly,  Madame.     Please  don't  mind  me. 

MME.  ERNSTEIN.  Besides,  as  we  are  going  to  sing  out 
of  doors  at  the  Duchess's,  you  can  do  us  a  service  by  tell- 
ing us  if  you  can  hear  us  from  here,  if  our  voices  carry 
well.  Will  you  be  so  kind? 

FREYDIERES.     Certainly.     What  are  you  going  to  sing? 

MME.  ERNSTEIN.  The  duet,  "  Poems  of  Love."  Are 
you  coming,  Meillan? 

M.  DE  MEILLAN.  I  am  at  your  service,  Madame. 
[They  go  towards  the  house.] 

FREYDIERES.  The  way  in  which  Mme.  Ernstein  gets 
rid  of  us  by  asking  us  to  remain  where  we  are  is  certainly 
rather  free  and  easy. 

CLAIRE.     That's  all  perfectly  natural. 

FREYDIERES.  Yes —  Well!  what  do  you  think  of  M.  de 
Meillan  ? 

CLAIRE.     Distinguished — very  fine-looking. 

FREYDIERES.     So  much  for  the  physical  appearance. 

CLAIRE.  I  can't  judge  of  him  in  other  respects.  He 
hasn't  opened  his  mouth. 


186  MAURICE  DONNAY 

FREYDIERES.  He  doesn't  open  it  except  to  sing.  But, 
to  be  fair,  he  sings  very  well. 

CLAIRE.     Yes  ? 

FREYDIERES.  You  are  going  to  hear  him.  It's  by  his 
singing  also  that  he  has  touched  the  heart  of  Mme.  Ern- 
stein.  You  know,  she  is  madly  in  love  with  him. 

CLAIRE.     Why  do  you  say  that? 

FREYDIERES.  Because  it's  the  truth,  as  you  have  seen 
yourself. 

CLAIRE.     I?     Not  at  all. 

FREYDIERES.     Really  ? 

CLAIRE.  No,  I  assure  you.  It's  not  in  me  to  suspect 
evil  like  that  without  knowing  it.  And  even  supposing  it 
is  true,  it's  strange  for  you  to  speak  so  lightly  and  before 
any  one  of  a  love  which  may  be  this  woman's  life  and  which 
she  believes  is  a  secret. 

FREYDIERES.  In  the  first  place,  you  are  not,  for  me, 
"  any  one,"  and  I  speak  of  it  lightly  to  you  because  it  is 
the  proper  way  to  speak  of  light  things.  Finally,  it's  no 
secret.  Mme.  Ernstein  doesn't  conceal  this  liaison;  not 
enough  even — she  almost  advertises  it.  You  see  how  little 
she  was  disturbed  by  you,  whom  she  saw  for  the  first  time 
this  evening.  She  is  a  woman  who  is  neglected  by  her  hus- 
band, and  she  consoles  herself. 

CLAIRE.     It  is  very  unfortunate. 

FREYDIERES.  Yes,  it  is  unfortunate.  She  was  charm- 
ing, this  little  Mme.  Ernstein,  when  she  was  married.  She 
loved  her  husband,  asking  only  that  he  remain  faithful  to 
her  to  the  end;  but  Ernstein  has  not  done  what  he  ought 
in  this  respect.  Then  she  sought  distraction.  She  was  a 
musician;  she  had  a  good  voice,  and  so  she  threw  herself 
heart  and  soul  into  music. 

CLAIRE.  She  has  gone  into  music  as  one  goes  into 
religion. 


THE  OTHER  DANGER  187 

FREYDIERES.  About  the  same  thing.  And  what  might 
be  expected  has  happened — she  has  met  the  tenor — the 
tenor ! 

CLAIRE.     And  then,  she  has  no  child. 

FREYDIERES.     That  wouldn't  have  hindered  her. 

CLAIRE.     If  she  had  loved  this  child? 

FREYDIERES.  You  think,  then,  that  one  cannot  be  a 
mother  and  a  lover  at  the  same  time? 

CLAIRE.  At  the  same  time — no;  one  would  have  to 
choose. 

FREYDIERES.     What  do  you  know  about  it? 

CLAIRE.  That's  true;  in  fact,  I  don't  know  anything 
about  it. 

FREYDIERES.     You  have  children? 

CLAIRE.     I  have  a  big  daughter. 

FREYDIERES.     O,  so  big  as  that? — 

CLAIRE.    She  is  already  twelve  years  old 

FREYDIERES.     Your  daughter  is  pretty? 

CLAIRE.  How  do  you  want  me  to  answer  you?  For 
me — yes,  she  is  very  pretty;  but  to  you  she  would  perhaps 
appear  insignificant. 

FREYDIERES.     She  looks  like  you? 

CLAIRE.     So  they  say. 

FREYDIERES.  Then  you  do  not  believe  a  word  of  what 
you  say. 

CLAIRE.  You  are  right.  I'm  being  modest,  and  that  is 
absurd,  for  it  is  not  because  she  is  my  daughter 

FREYDIERES.      [Smiling.]      Of  course. 

CLAIRE.     But  she  is  adorable. 

FREYDIERES.     Then  she  is  pretty. 

CLAIRE.  Strange —  Oh,  no!  oh,  no! — she  is  too — how 
shall  I  say? — unusual.  Yes,  that's  it,  unusual.  Then,  too, 
she  has  a  delicate  soul,  a  loving  heart 

FREYDIERES.     What  is  her  name? 


,188  MAURICE  DONNAY 

CLAIRE.  Madeleine.  [At  this  moment  are  heard  the 
opening  chords  of  the  first  duet  of  the  "  Poems  of  Love."] 

FREYDIERES.  What  a  funny  thing  life  is! —  Only  this 
morning 

CLAIRE.    What  about  this  morning? 

FREYDIERES.  I'll  tell  you  that  later;  let  us  wait  until 
this  duet  is  over 

[They  hear  the  voice  of  DE  MEILLAN,  who  commences:] 
Ouvre  tes  yeux  bleus,  ma  mignonne, 
Voici  le  j  our  ! 

[Then  the  voice  of  MME.   ERNSTEIN,  who  finishes:] 
Et  le  grand  soleil  qui  nous  brule 
Est  dans  mon  co3ur ! 

CLAIRE.     Madame  Ernstein  has  a  pretty  voice. 

FREYDIERES.  I'm  not  the  one  to  whom  to  tell  it; 
you  must  say  it  to  her.  It  will  give  her  a  great  deal  of 
pleasure. 

MME.  ERNSTEIN.  [Comes  to  the  window  of  the  salon.] 
Can  you  hear  us? 

FREYDIERES.     Yes,  I  should  say  we  could ! 

CLAIRE.     It's  charming. 

MME.  ERNSTEIN.     Then  it  sounds  well? 

CLAIRE.     Very  well. 

MME.  ERNSTEIN.     Where  are  you?    I  don't  see  you. 

FREYDIERES.  We  are  exactly  where  you  left  us.  We 
have  not  stirred. 

MME.  ERNSTEIN.     Still  I  don't  see  you. 

FREYDIERES.     There  are  some  shrubs  hiding  us. 

MME.  ERNSTEIN.     And  do  you  see  us? 

FREYDIERES.     No,  not  at  all. 

[MME.  ERNSTEIN  goes  back  into  the  room. 

CLAIRE.  Why  did  you  say  that,  when  we  see  them  very 
well  through  the  foliage? 

FREYDIERES.     Why  did  I  say  that?      [M.  DE  MEILLAN 


THE  OTHER  DANGER  180 

and  MME.  ERNSTEIN  are  seen  kissing.]  Wait!  Look! — 
For  that! 

CLAIRE.     [Laughing.]     Oh!  but  this  is  treason! 

FREYDIERES.  It's  complicity.  One  must  always  pro- 
tect lovers. 

CLAIRE.  How  imprudent  they  are !  Her  husband  in  the 
other  room — and  we  here  seeing  them. — A  servant  might 
come 

FREYDIERES.  They  are  not  thinking  of  all  that.  [M. 
DE  MEILLAN  and  MME.  ERNSTEIN  kiss.] 

CLAIRE.     It's  very  amusing.     The  music  has  stopped. 

FREYDIERES.  Another  kind  begins.  I  said  to  you  just 
now,  "  What  a  funny  thing  life  is !  "  Here  we  are,  both 
of  us,  this  evening,  in  this  garden.  I  didn't  know,  in  com- 
ing here  to  dinner,  that  I  should  meet  you. 

CLAIRE.     Didn't  you? 

FREYDIERES.  Ernstein  telephoned  me  this  morning  to 
come  to  dinner  with  De  Meillan  and  one  of  his  old  school- 
mates, whose  name  he  did  not  tell  me.  Then,  when  I 
entered  the  salon  and  saw  you,  I  felt  myself  grow  pale.  You 
must  certainly  have  seen  it. 

CLAIRE.     No,  I  didn't  notice  it. 

FREYDIERES.  You  may  not  have  noticed  it,  but  to  see 
you  here,  after  thirteen  years, — it  was  the  whole  period  of 
my  youth  suddenly  revived.  During  all  the  dinner,  I  was 
looking  at  you.  You  have  not  changed. 

CLAIRE.     You  are  very  kind. 

FREYDIERES.  Of  course,  the  young  girl  I  knew  has 
become  a  woman,  but  with  you,  it  has  not  been  a  trans- 
formation, as  with  others ;  no,  it  is  a  continuation ;  it  is  a 
different  thing  and  yet  the  same.  That  profound  expres- 
sion, the  alluring  sweetness  of  your  voice,  the  harmony  of 
your  movements, — all  that  makes  up  your  infinite  grace, — 
nothing  of  that  has  changed.  Then  a  host  of  feelings 


190  MAURICE  DONNAY 

that  I  believed,  or,  rather,  that  were  only — at  any  rate, 
I'm  all  upset!  But  you — you? 

CLAIRE.     I  ? 

FREYDIERES.  Yes,  you.  It  hasn't  affected  you  to  see 
me  again? 

CLAIRE.     I  was  surprised. 

FREYDIERES.     Yes,  you  were  surprised,  at  first — but  now  ? 

CLAIRE.     It  gives  me  pleasure. 

FREYDIERES.  [Bluntly.]  Oh,  you  don't  say  the  right 
word. 

CLAIRE.  I  say  what  I  think.  But  you  speak  rather 
brusquely  to  me. 

FREYDIERES.     Oh ! 

CLAIRE.  You  would  make  me  believe —  Really  I  don't 
know —  I 

FREYDIERES.  Yes,  I  know  what  you  are  thinking — that 
I  have  no  right  to  speak  to  you  in  this  way.  There  has 
never  been  anything  between  us.  No;  evidently  there  has 
been  nothing  in  the  ordinary  sense  in  which  it  is  under- 
stood. There  has  been  nothing,  and  yet  there  has  been 
everything.  We  passed  six  years  together  in  the  tender- 
est  and  warmest  intimacy.  There  were  my  dreams — my 
hopes,  my  desires.  It  is  impossible  that  you  have  for- 
gotten all  that. 

CLAIRE.  It  was  a  child's  love  affair,  just  like  so  many 
others. 

FREYDIERES.  You  were  not  a  child ;  six  months  after, 
you  married  Monsieur  Jadain.  I  didn't  wish  to  be  present 
at  the  wedding.  Besides, — I  hated  you. 

CLAIRE.      [Smiling.]      I  hope  now  you  have  forgiven  me. 

FREYDIERES.     I  don't  know. 

CLAIRE.  But  you  couldn't  have  married  me — you  were 
so  young. 

FREYDIERES.     That's  true;  we  are  the  same  age. 


THE  OTHER  DANGER  191 

CLAIRE.    You  are  even  a  year  younger  than  I. 

FREYDIERES.  However,  you  must  believe  that  the  im- 
pression made  by  a  young  girl  upon  a  heart  of  eighteen 
may  be  deep,  ineffaceable.  It's  foolish,  what  I'm  saying, 
isn't  it?  Oh,  I  know  it  perfectly!  Well,  what  do  you 
think  ? 

CLAIRE.  I  think — I  think — why,  I  think  just  now  you 
are  under  the  influence  of  auto-suggestion,  and  that  my 
sudden  presence  has  drawn  for  a  little  while,  from  the 
oblivion  where  it  was  properly  buried,  your  first  and 
now  distant  love  affair. 

FREYDIERES.  Well,  you're  mistaken.  I  have  never  for- 
gotten you,  and  you  should  believe  me — for,  to  overcome 
the  shame  which  I  feel  in  saying  things  to  you  which  may 
appear  so  commonplace,  I  must  feel  that  I  am  per- 
fectly sincere.  Otherwise,  it  would  be  too  easy  and  ridicu- 
lous— and  useless,  since  you  go  away  to-morrow,  and  I  may, 
perhaps,  never  see  you  again.  Don't  you  see,  from  this  very 
fact  that  we  have  been  brought  up  together,  that  we  have 
seen  the  same  horizons,  there  are  between  us  a  thousand 
bonds  of  feeling  which  unite  us  more  closely  than  we  our- 
selves think?  Distant  as  this  first  love  may  seem  to  you, 
I  have  remained  faithful  to  it. 

CLAIRE.     You  are  going  a  little  too  far. 

FREYDIERES.     Yes,  faithful  in  memory. 

CLAIRE.     Oh ! 

FREYDIERES.  Of  course,  I  have  had  some  liaisons,  but 
none  very  dangerous. 

CLAIRE.     Mile.  Blanche  Guillot,  for  example. 

FREYDIERES.     But  how  do  you  know  about  that? 

CLAIRE.  Oh,  you  are  famous — celebrated.  People  talk 
about  you. 

FREYDIERES.     That's  very  fine. 

CLAIRE.     No ;  I'm  teasing  you.    I  learned  this  by  chance, 


192  MAURICE  DONNAY 

two  years  ago,  while  I  was  staying  in  Paris.  We  went  to 
see  a  play  in  which  this  person  was  playing,  and  between 
the  acts  some  people  were  speaking  of  her.  In  a  box  next  to 
ours,  some  one  said,  "  She  is  with  Freydieres."  That's  all. 
You  seem  displeased? — I  am  talking  of  something  that 
doesn't  concern  me? 

FREYDIERES.  Not  at  all — not  at  all !  That's  ancient  his- 
tory. Besides,  she  looks  like  you.  I  don't  say  that  in  de- 
fense of  my  cause;  you  were  able  to  prove  it  yourself, 
since  you  saw  her. 

CLAIRE.  It's  true.  Doubtless,  that  is  what  you  mean  by 
your  fidelity. 

FREYDIERES.  Yes;  there  are  some  men  who,  in  certain 
circumstances  and  under  certain  different  forms,  remain 
faithful  to  the  same  ideal — to  the  same  type  of  woman. 

CLAIRE.  It's  dangerous  for  those  who  love  such  men: 
they  have  to  fear  all  the  women  who  resemble  them. 

FREYDIERES.  It's  less  dangerous  than  if  they  had  to  fear 
all  the  women  who  don't.  There  are  many  more  of  them. 

CLAIRE.     Evidently. 

FREYDIERES.  But,  to  return  to  what  we  were  saying 
just  now — often  a  person  who  would  like  to  forget,  can- 
not; even  if  he  should  not  keep  his  love  for  a  certain 
woman,  a  thousand  images  of  her  remain  in  his  brain,  that 
a  strain  of  music,  a  perfume,  a  bit  of  sky,  a  tree,  a  word,  the 
most  insignificant  of  outward  circumstances,  call  up  with 
extraordinary  vividness.  Some  people  are  endowed  with  a 
special  memory,  with  a  sentimental  memory.  It  is  so  with 
me:  I  cannot  hear  any  tune  that  you  have  played,  without 
being  plunged  into  melancholy — a  profound  regret.  And 
then  I  see  you  in  the  salon  of  the  old  house  at  Clisson,  the 
white  and  gold  salon  with  the  red  velvet  furniture,  and  on 
the  mantelpiece  the  elephant  in  bronze  that  carried  on  its 
back  a  clock  surmounted  by  a  gilded  cupid.  I  see  you 


THE  OTHER  DANGER  193 

seated  at  the  piano.  I  could  describe  the  very  gown  you 
had  on  that  day,  to  the  last  ribbon. 

CLAIRE.     It's  strange! 

FREYDIERES.     Very  strange! 

CLAIRE.     Should  I  have  said  something  else? 

FREYDIERES.  No,  no, — just  what  you  did, — "  It's 
strange."  For  instance,  five  years  ago,  after  your  mar- 
riage, when  my  father  died — in  taking  him  to  the  cemetery 
we  followed  the  sunken  road,  called  the  "  Hollow/'  where 
we  have  walked  so  often  together. 

CLAIRE.     Oh,  yes,  I  remember  it. 

FREYDIERES.  It  was  a  summer  morning.  Why  did  I 
suddenly  recall  another  morning  like  it,  when  you  and  I  were 
following  the  same  road?  It  was  the  first  time  you  used 
the  perfume  which  you  still  use,  do  you  not?  I  recog- 
nized it. 

CLAIRE.     Yes. 

FREYDIERES.     You  had  used  too  much. 

CLAIRE.     It  is  often  that  way  when  one  begins. 

FREYDIERES.  And  you  attracted  a  swarm  of  wasps,  in- 
toxicated by  the  scent.  I  was  very  busy  chasing  them ; — you 
laughed — you  were  not  afraid.  You  wore  a  cotton  dress. 
The  groundwork  was  white,  and  had  little  bunches  of  pinks 
scattered  over  it.  You  had  a  large  white  hat,  trimmed  with 
hollyhocks  and  some  lace  that  fell  from  it. 

CLAIRE.     Yes,  that's  true;  I  remember. 

FREYDIERES.  Well,  in  these  terrible  circumstances,  while 
I  was  walking  behind  my  father's  coffin,  I  was  thinking 
of  you !  It  is  strange,  isn't  it  ?  And  on  an  evening  like 
this,  do  you  think  I  need  have  you  near  me  in  order  to 
recall  other  mild  and  starry  nights,  when  we  sat  in  the 
garden,  side  by  side,  and  I  held  your  hand  in  the  darkness  ? 
Just  to  hold  this  little  hand  that  I  adore — the  very  key  of 
your  soul — made  it  seem  that  I  possessed  you  entirely. 


194  MAURICE  DONNAY 

[He  takes  her  hand  during  these  last  rvords.]  Of  what 
are  you  thinking? 

CLAIRE.  I'm  thinking  of  what  you  are  saying.  I  did  not 
know  that  you  loved  me  so. 

FREYDIERES.     And  that  gives  you  pleasure? 

CLAIRE.  I  find  it  very  sweet.  I  am  much  moved — much 
disturbed. 

FREYDIERES.     Truly  ? 

CLAIRE.  Yes;  but  what  good  does  it  do  to  talk  about 
it?  Of  what  use  is  it  to  call  up  the  past  in  this  way? 
To-morrow  I  take  up  again  my  quiet  life  with  my  daughter 
whom  I  adore,  and  my  husband 

FREYDIERES.     Whom  you   esteem. 

CLAIRE.     Whom  I  love — yes,  sincerely. 

[Meantime,  in  the  salon,  MME.  ERNSTEIN  and  M.  DE 
MEILLAN,  ceasing  their  love  making,  have  decided  to  sing 
the  last  duet  of  "  Poems  of  Love."  They  sing  together:] 
"  Oh !  ne  finis  jamais,  nuit  clemente  et  divine !  " 

FREYDIERES.  But  you  can  return  to  Paris.  You  have 
just  heard  Ernstein  offer  you  the  means  to  do  it,  and  I'm 
sure  you  have  enough  influence  with  Monsieur  Jadain 

CLAIRE.  Oh,  no — no,  no !  Paris  frightens  me.  Every 
time  I  come,  I  am  so  glad  to  be  here.  The  first  few 
days,  it's  a  kind  of  fever — a  veritable  intoxication;  I  love 
the  noise,  the  bustle.  And  then,  pretty  soon,  a  great  weari- 
ness comes  over  me — an  indefinable  sadness  in  feeling 
myself  alone  in  this  crowd — all  alone — all  alone ! 

FREYDIERES.  Alone?  Doesn't  your  husband  come  with 
you? 

CLAIRE.     Why,  yes ! 

FREYDIERES.  Ah!  [Silence.]  Yes,  that  is  the  sensa- 
tion one  feels  in  certain  cities,  when  one  comes  alone  and 
without  love;  then  the  joy  of  others  becomes  insupport- 
able. There  are  some  mornings  in  the  spring  when  the 


THE  OTHER  DANGER  195 

clerk  and  the  milliner  who  pass,  holding  hands  and  smiling 
at  each  other,  are  young  gods  one  is  jealous  of;  and 
certain  holiday  evenings,  the  whole  city  may  be  illuminated 
and  aglow,  but  it  appears  gloomy,  if  one  does  not  carry  one's 
own  illumination  within. 

CLAIRE.  But  it  seems  gloomier  still  when  there  are  two, 
and  one  of  the  two,  amid  the  pulsating  life  about  her,  has 
only  the  bitter  sweetness  of  faith  kept — the  keen  satisfac- 
tion of  duty  done. 

FREYDIERES.     Claire ! 

CLAIRE.  Don't  mind  me!  Don't  mind  me!  I'm  a 
coward.  I  have  no  right  to  complain.  I'm  very  happy. 
I  have  only  to  go  back  to  my  home  in  a  little  country  town 
to  find  again  tranquillity  and  a  certain  happiness. 

FREYDIERES.     A  happiness  to  which  you  are  resigned. 

CLAIRE.  No,  but  one  that  I  choose — that  I  accept  freely, 
appreciating  all  its  value. 

FREYDIERES.  There  is  another  happiness,  however:  lov- 
ing and  being  loved. 

CLAIRE.  Hush,  hush!  What  you  are  doing  is  wrong! 
You  are  taking  advantage  of  a  moment  of  frankness,  of 
weakness. 

FREYDIERES.     I  beg  your  pardon. 

[During  these  last  words,  JADAIN  and  ERNSTEIN  have 
come  down  the  steps  into  the  garden.] 

ETIENNE.  Oh,  certainly;  it's  very  interesting;  I'm 
certainly  tempted. 

ERNSTEIN.  Then  it's  settled.  To-morrow  I'm  going  to 
lunch  with  Harduc.  After  lunch,  I  shall  have  the  order. 

ETIENNE.     Claire,  do  you  know  what  time  it  is? 

CLAIRE.     I  haven't  any  idea. 

ETIENNE.     Midnight.     You  must  get  ready. 

CLAIRE.     I  should  think  so! 

ERNSTEIN.     It's  not   late. 


196  MAURICE  DONNAY 

FREYDIERES.  At  Grenoble,  at  this  hour,  the  ladybugs 
have  been  abed  a  long  time. 

CLAIRE.     Don't  laugh  at  me. 

MME.  ERNSTEIN.  [Descending  the  steps.]  Madame, 
will  you  take  a  cup  of  tea — or  some  iced  drink?  It's  all 
ready,  in  the  little  drawing-room. 

ETIENNE.     It's  only 

MME.  ERNSTEIN.  Oh,  no!  You're  not  going  to  leave 
the  tea  on  my  hands.  Leon,  insist! 

ERNSTEIN.  In  a  minute,  my  dear,  we'll  follow  you. 
I  have  only  a  word  to  say  to  Madame  Jadain. 

MME.  ERNSTEIN.  Say  it,  then.  [To  JADAIN  and  to 
FREYDIERES.]  Are  you  coming? 

[FREYDIERES  and  JADAIN  go  up  the  steps  towards  the 
house.  ERNSTEIN  and  MADAME  JADAIN  remain  alone.] 

ERNSTEIN.  It's  too  bad  you  must  go  away  to-morrow 
morning,  but  I  count  on  seeing  you  again  soon. 

CLAIRE.     Next  year. 

ERNSTEIN.  Next  year?  Sooner,  sooner!  I  have  just 
been  talking  very  seriously  with  your  husband.  I  have 
worked  for  you.  In  two  months  it  is  more  than  probable 
that  you  will  be  settled  in  Paris. 

CLAIRE.     What?     Then  it  has  been  decided — off-hand? 

ERNSTEIN.     Yes,  certainly. 

CLAIRE.     Indeed ! 

ERNSTEIN.     You  don't  seem  pleased? 

CLAIRE.     New  things  always  frighten  me. 

ERNSTEIN.     What  are  you  afraid  of? 

CLAIRE.  I  don't  know — everything.  First,  you  do  not 
know  Etienne;  he  is  a  little  difficult; — perhaps  he  will  not 
get  along  with  you. 

ERNSTEIN.  People  always  get  along  with  me,  and  no 
one  ever  risks  anything  in  entering  into  partnership  with  a 
man  who  is  lucky.  Before  taking  any  one  into  his  serv- 


THE  OTHER  DANGER  197 

ice,  Mazarin  always  used  to  ask,  "Is  he  lucky?"  And 
you'll  admit  Mazarin  is  an  authority. 

CLAIRE.     I'll  not  dispute  it. 

ERNSTEIN.  Now,  then,  I  am  happy;  at  the  same  time 
with  my  own  fortune,  I  have  always  made  the  fortune  of 
those  whom  I  have  interested  in  my  business. 

CLAIRE.     Oh!  fortune! 

ERNSTEIN.  It's  a  thing  to  be  considered,  however.  You 
are  not  going  to  hinder  Etienne  from  accepting  the  posi- 
tion I'm  offering  him,  I  hope? 

CLAIRE.  No — and  if  he  intends  to  accept,  nothing  I 
could  say  would  hinder  him  in  the  least. 

ERNSTEIN.  How  you  say  that !  I  don't  understand  you. 
I  assure  you  that  what  I  propose  to  your  husband  is  not 
to  be  despised, — and  everybody  should  seize  an  opportunity 
when  it  comes, — it  comes  only  once.  No  one  has  a  right 
to  remain  in  an  ordinary  position — or  at  least,  modest — 
when  he  can  fill  a  more  brilliant  one:  he  should  always  try 
to  better  himself — to  rise.  Come,  don't  look  like  that. 
Truly,  I  thought  I  was  telling  you  good  news. 

CLAIRE.  I  beg  your  pardon.  But  this  decision,  taken 
so  suddenly,  so  unluckily — yes,  so  unluckily — and  then,  so 
many  occurrences  have  come  to  surprise  me  this  even- 
ing. .  .  . 

ERNSTEIN.  So  many  occurrences! — There  is  only  one — 
and  that  the  simplest.  .  .  . 

CLAIRE.  The  simplest!  No,  it  is  a  complete  change  in 
life. 

ERNSTEIN.  All  the  same,  you  will  have  a  gayer  one, 
more  lively,  more  in  accordance  with  your  tastes.  Just 
think — a  woman  like  you  at  Grenoble !  Why,  it's  to  be  out 
of  the  world!  While  here,  we  shall  amuse  you,  entertain 
you,  make  a  great  deal  of  you.  Have  you  been  bored  this 
evening  ? 


198  MAURICE  DONNAY 

CLAIRE.     Oh,  no. 

ERNSTEIN.  Well,  then,  every  evening  will  be  the  same. 
Now,  come  take  a  cup  of  tea.  [He  offers  her  his  arm.] 
Upon  my  soul!  you  are  actually  trembling.  [While  they  are 
going  toward  the  salon  the  curtain  falls.] 

.   ACT  II. 

[Paris,  four  years  later,  at  the  home  of  the  JADAINS.  A 
little  drawing-room  with  a  window  at  the  left;  a  door 
at  the  back  opens  into  ETIENNE'S  study;  a  door  at  the 
right  leads  into  the  rest  of  the  apartment.  When  the 
curtain  rises,  ETIENNE  and  his  father,  seated  at  a 
table,  are  playing  cards;  MME.  JADAIN,  ETIENNE'S 
mother,  is  in  an  armchair,  reading  the  paper.  MADE- 
LEINE is  making  a  portrait  of  her  grandmother.  MME. 
CHENEVAS,  CLAIRE'S  sister,  is  busy  with  some  work. 
MME.  JADAIN,  about  sixty  years  old,  is  a  common- 
place, country-bred  woman.  MADELEINE  is  a  young 
girl  of  sixteen.] 

JADAIN.  [Throwing  his  cards  down  on  the  table,  in  bad 
humor.]  There's  nothing  to  be  done  with  this  hand.  May 
I  draw? 

ETIENNE.      [Resolutely.]      No. 

JADAIN.     Of  course. 

MADELEINE.  [Laughing.]  Of  course,  Grandpa;  you 
don't  conceal  your  disappointment  enough;  then  Papa  sees 
at  once  you  have  a  poor  hand,  and  he'll  not  let  you  draw. 

JADAIN.     Evidently. 

ETIENNE.     Besides,  I  have  the  king. 

JADAIN.     He  is  a  fine  man. 

ETIENNE.  That  gives  me  four.  Here  is  my  hand. 
[He  shows  his  cards.] 


THE  OTHER  DANGER  199 

JADAIN.  You  have  won  again.  Shall  we  play  another 
game  ? 

ETIENNE.  No,  father;  I  have  to  work. — And  then  I 
must  confess  I  am  not  fond  of  ecarte. 

MADELEINE.  Oh,  Papa,  you  are  sorry  not  to  have  your 
Freydieres  to  play  a  game  of  checkers  with? 

ETIENNE.  Yes,  I  miss  him  a  good  deal.  Well,  I'm 
going  to  work. 

MME.  JADAIN.  Directly  after  your  lunch,  like  that? 
It's  bad  for  your  digestion.  Never  take  any  rest? 

ETIENNE.  Never,  Mother,  never.  [He  goes  into  Ms 
study,] 

JADAIN.     Where  is  your  mother? 

MADELEINE.     I  don't  know;  she  must  be  in  her  room. 

JADAIN.     What  are  you  doing  there,  my  pet? 

MADELEINE.     I'm  doing  Grandma's  portrait. 

JADAIN.     Aha!     You  are  learning  to  draw  now? 

MADELEINE.  Now!  I've  been  learning  for  four  years. 
I  began  when  we  came  to  Paris. 

JADAIN.  Oh,  did  you?  I  had  forgotten.  [He  goes  near 
the  window.]  Don't  you  find  it  stifling  here? 

MADELEINE.     The  draft  of  the  furnace  is  closed. 

JADAIN.  All  the  same,  it's  much  too  warm;  they  over- 
heat the  apartments  here  in  Paris.  [He  walks  up  and  down, 
whistling  the  air  of  the  chorus  of  old  men  in  "  Faust."] 

MME.  JADAIN.  I  beg  you,  my  dear,  not  to  whistle  like 
that;  it's  unendurable  when  one  is  reading.  You  are  like  a 
soul  in  torture.  I  don't  understand  how  you  can  endure  to 
be  so  idle. 

JADAIN.     I  feel  dull. 

MME.  JADAIN.  You  feel  dull! — you  feel  dull!  Do 
something, — read. 

JADAIN.     You  monopolize  the  paper. 

MME.  JADAIN.     Here,  take  it! 


200  MAURICE  DONNAY 

JADAIN.     I've  already  read  it. 

MME.  JADAIN.     Then  go  for  a  walk. 

JADAIN.     Thanks. 

MME.  JADAIN.  Yes,  go  for  a  walk;  take  a  little  turn; 
that  will  divert  you. 

JADAIN.     In  such  weather?      It   is   raining  hard. 

MADELEINE.  So  it  is.  Freydieres  would  say,  "  If  it  be- 
gins at  this  hour,  it  will  rain  all  day."  And  he  would  add, 
"  But  it  comes  down  too  hard  to  last."  [She  laughs.] 

MME.  JADAIN.  What  is  there  funny  in  that?  It  is 
what  everybody  says. 

MADELEINE.     Exactly — it  is  what  everybody  says. 

MME.  JADAIN.  It  must  be  that  I  am  not  in  the 
secret. 

MADELEINE.  Grandpa,  I  have  an  idea:  to-day  is  Thurs- 
day, and  it's  New  Year's  week. — What  if  you  should  go  to 
a  matinee  ? 

JADAIN.     Good  idea!     Give  me  some  advice,  my  pet. 

MADELEINE.  Oh,  there's  a  matinee  at  the  Folies- 
Bergere,  for  the  children. 

JADAIN.     Aha ! 

MME.  JADAIN.     That's  just  right  for  him. 

MADELEINE.  There  is  a  place  to  promenade;  you  could 
walk  there. 

JADAIN.  Well,  that's  it — that's  it.  You  won't  come  with 
me,  Cloto? 

MME.  JADAIN.  Call  me  Clotilde;  at  our  age,  such  baby 
names  are  ridiculous.  No,  my  dear,  I  shall  not  go  with 
you;  I  have  some  errands  to  do;  I  must  go  to  the  Bon 
Marche. 

MADELEINE.  [Taking  the  paper.]  Do  you  want  to  see 
something  sad,  or  gay?  Do  you  want  to  hear  music? 

JADAIN.     What  are  they  playing  at  the  Opera  Comique? 

MADELEINE.     The  Black  Domino.     That's  pretty.     The 


THE  OTHER  DANGER  201 

Black  Domino!  [She  hums  the  air,  "  I  hear  the  dance 
commencing."] 

JADAIN.  You  needn't  make  fun  of  it;  it  is  very  pretty 
music. 

MADELEINE.  But  I'm  not  making  fun,  Grandpapa,  I  re- 
spect all  your  opinions. 

JADAIN.  I'd  like  to  see  The  Black  Domino,  but  to  sit  still 
for  three  hours,  without  moving! 

[MME.  JADAIN  throws  up  her  hands  in  sign  of  impa- 
tience.] 

JADAIN.  Well,  I'm  going.  [He  goes  towards  ETIENNE'S 
office.] 

MME.  JADAIN.     Where  are  you  going? 

JADAIN.     I'm  going  to  say  good-by  to  my  son. 

MME.  JADAIN.  Etienne  is  working.  Don't  disturb  him, 
since  you  are  coming  back  so  soon. 

JADAIN.  You're  right. — I'm  going  just  the  same  to  bid 
him  good-by.  [He  goes  in.] 

MADELEINE.  Poor  Grandpapa!  He  feels  dull.  But  for 
the  few  days  you  come  to  spend  with  us  at  New  Year's,  he 
ought  to  be  glad  to  see  us,  and  not  find  the  time  long. 

MME.  JADAIN.  He  has  been  like  this  since  he  gave  up 
his  business.  But  at  Grenoble,  he  has  his  friends,  his  so- 
cieties, his  club;  here,  he  has  nothing. 

MADELEINE.  Isn't  it  funny  to  be  like  that?  I  don't 
know  what  it  is  to  feel  dull. 

MME.  JADAIN.  Oh,  for  you,  it  is  not  the  same  thing; 
you  are  young. 

MADELEINE.  The  days  pass.  I  don't  even  have  time 
to  notice  them. 

MME.  JADAIN.  And  then  you  have  a  very  gay  disposi- 
tion. 

MADELEINE.  Oh,  very  gay! — That  depends.  I  can  be 
very  sad,  too,  when  I  choose. 


202  MAURICE  DONNAY 

MME.  JADAIN.     When  you  choose? 

MADELEINE.  Yes,  I  love  to  be  sad,  and  as  I  have  no 
reason  whatever  for  being  so,  I  amuse  myself  by  going 
through  exercises  in  sadness. 

MME.  JADAIN.  It's  rather  a  peculiar  amusement.  I 
should  like  to  know,  for  instance,  how  you  go  about  your 
"  exercises  in  sadness." 

MADELEINE.  It's  very  easy:  I  stay  in  my  room  with- 
out a  light,  when  it's  growing  dark;  twilight  itself  is  full 
of  an  infinite  melancholy. — Then  sad  thoughts  come  of 
themselves. 

MME.  JADAIN.  What  a  funny  little  girl  you  are!  But 
who  has  taught  you  that? 

MADELEINE.  Father  Conderam.  You  know — the  one 
who  preached  during  the  Retreat,  the  year  of  my  first  com- 
munion. In  the  evening,  in  the  church,  he  made  us  kneel, 
and  then  told  us  to  meditate. 

MME.  JADAIN.  That's  a  thing  that  does  not  come  at 
command. 

MADELEINE.  Well,  we  meditated,  just  the  same:  we 
thought  of  death  and  the  last  judgment, — in  the  church 
where  only  one  little  lamp  burned, — and  we  all  came  out 
trembling. 

MME.  JADAIN.  No  wonder !  Especially  you,  who  were 
in  a  state  of  exaltation  then.  That  lasted  a  rather  long 
time ;  you  even  wanted  to  become  a  nun. 

MADELEINE.  At  a  certain  age,  all  little  girls  whose 
imagination  is  rather  lively  think  that  they  have  this  call- 
ing. You  must  have  felt  the  same. 

MME.  JADAIN.      [With  pride.]     Never! 

MADELEINE.  [Scrutinizing  her.]  Perhaps, — but  I'm 
sure  that  Aunt  Alice,  when  she  was  thirteen  or  fourteen 
wanted  to  be  a  nun;  didn't  you,  Auntie? 

MME.  CHENEVAS.     You're  right;  it  seems  as  if  some  of 


THE  OTHER  DANGER  203 

us,  at  the  threshold  of  womanhood,  seek  instinctively  a 
refuge  from  the  world — we  have  a  presentiment  that  we  are 
not  going  to  be  happy  in  it. 

MADELEINE.     You  are  sad  to-day,  Auntie. 

MME.  CHENEVAS.  That's  nothing  new  for  me.  I  have 
no  reason  to  be  gay. 

MADELEINE.  What  is  it  now?  Is  it  that  letter  from 
your  lawyer? 

MME.  CHENEVAS.  Yes;  he  writes  that  I  am  com- 
pletely ruined;  my  husband  has  entangled,  or,  rather,  com- 
plicated, his  affairs  in  such  a  manner  that  there  is  no  hope 
of  my  getting  possession  of  the  little  I  have. 

MADELEINE.     It's  abominable! 

MME.  CHENEVAS.  So,  not  content  with  having  deceived 
me  and  tortured  me  to  the  point  of  obliging  me  to  sue  for 
a  divorce,  he  has  ruined  me.  Morally  and  financially,  I  am 
his  victim,  and  here  I  am,  at  thirty-five,  alone  in  the  world, 
without  means,  and  rich  only  in  sad  memories. 

MADELEINE.  [Going  to  kiss  her  aunt.]  You  are  not 
alone. — All  of  us  love  you. — You  will  find  here  affection 
and  tenderness. — Mamma  will  never  abandon  her  sister. — 
This  is  your  own  home. 

MME.  CHENEVAS.  Yes,  my  dear  girl,  you  have  excel- 
lent hearts;  but  you  cannot  understand:  however  generous 
and  warm  the  welcome  may  be,  it  is  always  hard  to  be  taken 
in,  instead  of  being  merely  a  welcomed  guest. 

MADELEINE.  It's  not  hopeless.—  Freydieres  comes  back 
to-day. — We  shall  see  him,  probably,  very  soon.  You  know 
how  devoted  he  is  to  you;  he  will  give  you  some  good 
advice. 

MME.  CHENEVAS.  He  will  advise  me  to  be  resigned, 
or  else  to  bring  a  suit. 

MADELEINE.  And  he  will  win  it;  he  has  so  much  ability, 
and  your  cause  is  so  just! 


204  MAURICE  DONNAY 

MME.  CHENEVAS.  You  have  some  beautiful  illusions.  It 
isn't  sufficient  that  a  cause  should  be  just  to  have  it  triumph. 

MADELEINE.  All  the  same,  I  have  the  greatest  confi- 
dence in  Freydieres.  Besides  his  being  very  eloquent,  he 
has  the  reputation  of  having  never  pleaded  a  cause  that 
was  not  honorable. 

MME.  CHENEVAS.  To  make  the  truth  appear  is  to  at- 
tempt a  miracle. 

MADELEINE.     He  will  do  it. 

MME.  CHENEVAS.     I  ask  nothing  better.      [A   silence.] 

MADELEINE.  Auntie,  you  married  for  love,  didn't 
you? 

MME.  CHENEVAS.  Yes,  for  love, — and  you  see  where  it 
has  led  me.  Let  it  be  a  warning  to  you ! 

MME.  JADAIN.  Why  do  you  say  that  to  the  child,  Alice  ? 
It's  no  reason,  because  such  a  marriage  hasn't  succeeded 
with  you. 

MME.  CHENEVAS.     With  me,  as  with  a  great  many  others. 

MME.  JADAIN.  On  that  score,  as  much  could  be  said  for 
marriages  of  convenience. 

MADELEINE.  And  you,  Grandma — was  yours  a  love 
match  or  a  marriage  of  convenience? 

MME.  JADAIN.     Oh,  both ! 

MADELEINE.     Half-naf! — Marriage  is  a  serious  thing. 

MME.  JADAIN.  It's  true. — The  time  for  you  to  think  of 
it  will  soon  come. 

MADELEINE.     Oh,  I  have  plenty  of  time. 

MME.  JADAIN.  Why,  not  so  very  much.  In  two  years 
you  will  be  eighteen:  ready  to  marry. 

MADELEINE.  But  the  question  is  not  of  marrying  for 
the  sake  of  being  married;  but  to  be  able  to  choose 

MME.  JADAIN.  "I'm  not  troubled  about  that;  pretty  as 
you  are,  and  with  the  dowry  you  will  have,  you  will  be 
able  to  choose. 


THE  OTHER  DANGER  205 

MADELEINE.  Oh,  the  dowry!  Don't  speak  of  that! 
And,  besides,  for  a  woman,  the  essential  thing  is  not  to  be 
merely  pretty,  pretty;  but  to  have  the  power  to  please — 
like  Mamma,  for  instance.  There  is  no  question  but  that 
Mamma,  besides  being  pretty,  exercises  a  great  fascination 
upon  everybody. 

MM-E.  CHENEVAS.  You  resemble  your  mother  very  much, 
too. 

MME.  JADAIN.  You  think  so,  Alice?  I  don't;  it  should 
be  rather  on  the  side  of  her  father:  she  is  a  Jadain. 

MADELEINE.  [Laughing.]  Ha,  ha,  Grandma! — a 
Jadain,  a  Jadain !  You  said  that  as  if  you  were  speak- 
ing of  a  Montmorency.  You  want  me  to  resemble  your  son, 
rather  than  your  daughter-in-law ;  that's  very  natural.  But, 
to  come  back  to  what  I  was  saying — this  power  to  please 
gives  you  the  right  to  choose,  and,  with  this  power,  and 
with  determination,  the  man  chosen  ought  to  love  you.  First, 
I  want  to  know  the  man  I'm  going  to  marry. 

MME.  JADAIN.  What  do  you  mean?  Know  him!  Of 
course,  you  will  know  him. 

MADELEINE.  Yes;  but  I  don't  want  to  marry  him  on 
the  strength  of  an  introduction  merely.  A  marriage  of  con- 
venience— how  horrible !  I  have  my  own  ideas  about  that. 
And,  besides,  I  want  to  marry  somebody  who  2*  some- 
body. 

MME.  JADAIN.  Oh,  you're  ambitious!  It's  not  so  easy 
as  you  think,  and  it's  rather  hard  to  find  a  very  young  man 
who  "  is  somebody,"  as  you  say. 

MADELEINE.     I  don't  care,  either,  for  a  very  young  man. 

MME.  JADAIN.  Yes,  I  know,  young  girls  to-day  don't 
hesitate  to  marry  older  men. 

MADELEINE.  Older !  You  mustn't  exaggerate,  either. 
You  gain  a  great  deal,  don't  you,  if  you  mate  people 
according  to  age,  and  they  are  bored  at  being  together? 


206  MAURICE  DONNAY 

You  needn't  fear  such  a  thing  with  a  superior  man,  while 
a  fool  is  always  old. 

MME.  JADAIN.  It  seems  to  me  you  have  very  decided 
opinions. 

MADELEINE.     One  ought  to  know  what  one  wants. 

MME.  JADAIN.  Perhaps  you  have  some  one  already  in 
mind? 

MADELEINE.     [Blushing  suddenly.]     Oh,  dear,  no! 

MME.  JADAIN.     Your  face  has  grown  very  red. 

MADELEINE.    Not  at  all;  it's  you  who  see  red. 

MME.  JADAIN.      [Laughing.]     See,  Alice, — look  at  her! 

MADELEINE.  The  blood  has  rushed  to  my  head ;  it's  very 
warm  here.  And  then,  it's  ridiculous;  it's  stupid.  Of 
course,  now  that  you've  said  that,  it's  settled.  No, 
Grandma,  please  don't  laugh  like  that. — I  don't  find  it  funny 
at  all. 

MME.  JADAIN.  Well,  well!  I'm  not  trying  to  find  out 
your  secrets. 

MADELEINE.  But  I  haven't  any  secrets.  It's  strange 
that  a  girl  can't  speak  of  marriage  in  a  general  way,  with- 
out your  immediately  putting  on  a  knowing  air  and  mak- 
ing it  personal.  [She  gets  up  and  goes  towards  the  door.] 

MME.  JADAIN.    You're  going  away?    You're  angry? 

MADELEINE.  [At  the  door.]  Oh,  not  the  least  in  the 
world,  Grandma!  I'm  going  to  my  room,  because  there's 
no  chance  to  talk  seriously  with  you.  I  thought  we  were 
women  together;  I  was  mistaken — that's  all. 

MME.  JADAIN.  You  are  going  to  practice  your  "  exer- 
cises in  sadness  "  ? 

MADELEINE.    Perhaps.     [She  goes  out.] 

MME.  JADAIN.  She  appeared  really  provoked.  I'm  sure 
I  hit  right.  Don't  you  find  what  she  said  applies  remark- 
ably to  Monsieur  Freydieres? 

MME.  CHENEVAS.    Oh,  I  don't  know.     No.    Why? 


THE  OTHER  DANGER  207 

MME.  JADAIN.  You  heard  her :  She  doesn't  care  to  marry 
a  very  young  man,  but  some  one  who  is  somebody.  Be- 
sides, Monsieur  Freydieres  is  the  only  man  she  sees 
at  all  intimately,  for  he  is  the  only  man  who  comes  here 
often. 

MME.  CHENEVAS.  Yes,  he  is  working  on  my  divorce;  and 
so  he  comes  here  rather  often  since  I'm  making  my  home 
here. 

MME.  JADAIN.  But  he  came  here  before;  I  have  always 
seen  him;  it  wouldn't  be  impossible  that  the  chit  had  no- 
ticed him  and  lost  her  head  over  him. 

MME.  CHENEVAS.    You  think  so? 

MME.  JADAIN.     You  haven't  noticed  anything? 

MME.  CHENEVAS.    No. 

MME.  JADAIN.  Of  course;  you  are  absorbed  in  your 
own  affairs.  But  it's  evident  Madeleine  thinks  a  great 
deal  of  this  Monsieur  Freydieres;  she  likes  to  talk  of  him. 
He  is  distinguished,  captivating,  celebrated.  How  old  do 
you  suppose  he  is?  Thirty- four — thirty-five? 

MME.  CHENEVAS.     Yes. 

MME.  JADAIN.  For  a  man,  he's  still  young;  such  a 
match  is  not  inconceivable. 

MME.  CHENEVAS.  He  has  seen  Madeleine  as  a  little  girl, 
and  always  thinks  of  her  as  a  child. 

MME.  JADAIN.  But  she  considers  him  as  a  man;  there 
is,  perhaps,  where  the  danger  lies, — especially  if  he  doesn't 
think  of  marrying  her.  All  this  is  between  us,  and  I  speak 
to  you  about  it  simply  because  you  are  here.  I  shall  not 
even  mention  it  to  Claire,  although  we  are  on  excellent 
terms.  My  daughter-in-law  understands  that  I  don't  med- 
dle with  anything.  After  all,  perhaps  I  am  mistaken.  All 
the  same,  she  became  as  red  as  a  peony.  [At  this  mo- 
ment, a  maid  ushers  FREYDIERES  into  the  room.] 

FREYDIERES.      [After  having  shaken  hands  with  MME. 


208  MAURICE  DONNAY 

CHENEVAS,     bows     to     MME.     JADAIN.]        Good-morning, 
Madame. 

MME.  JADAIN.     Good-morning,  Monsieur. 

FREYDIERES.    You  are  well? 

MME.  JADAIN.    As  you  see. 

FREYDIERES.    You  are  here  for  some  time? 

MME.  JADAIN.    We  leave  the  early  part  of  next  week. 

FREYDIERES.    Is  Monsieur  Jadain  well? 

MME.  JADAIN.  Oh,  yes,  thank  you;  he  has  gone  to  the 
Folies-Bergere. 

FREYDIERES.    Oho ! 

MME.  JADAIN.    Upon  the  advice  of  his  granddaughter. 

FREYDIERES.    Ha,  ha ! 

[CLAIRE  comes  in. 

CLAIRE.  [To  FREYDIERES.]  Good-morning.  You  re- 
turned this  morning? 

FREYDIERES.     Yes. 

CLAIRE.     You've  seen  your  mother  ?    How  is  she  ? 

FREYDIERES.  Very  well;  she  doesn't  change;  she's  truly 
extraordinary  for  her  age. 

CLAIRE.     She  was  glad  to  see  you? 

FREYDIERES.    Very  glad — poor  woman ! 

CLAIRE.  I  have  received  some  beautiful  flowers.  Thank 
you! — You  see,  they  have  kept  wonderfully. 

MME.  JADAIN.  Will  you  excuse  me  if  I  leave  you,  Mon- 
sieur? I  have  some  errands  to  do;  besides,  I'm  not  going 
to  say  good-by,  for  I  shall  see  you  again.  [She  goes  out.] 

CLAIRE.  Has  my  sister  told  you  that  she  has  received 
a  letter  from  her  lawyer? 

FREYDIERES.  We've  not  yet  had  any  time  to  talk.  [To 
MME.  CHENEVAS.]  Have  you  this  letter? 

MME.  CHENEVAS.    Here  it  is. 

[He  reads  the  letter  that  MME.  CHENEVAS  hands  him. 

CLAIRE.     What  do  you  think  of  it? 


THE  OTHER  DANGER  209 

FREYDIERES.     It's  not  very  encouraging. 

MME.  CHENEVAS.  Do  you  believe  we  shall  get  any- 
thing ? 

FREYDIERES.  It  will  be  difficult;  your  husband  is  not 
distrainable ;  he  lives  with  his  mother,  and  does  business 
under  an  assumed  name. 

CLAIRE.     Can't  you  demand  a  settlement? 

FREYDIERES.     Not  before  three  years. 

MME.  CHENEVAS.     What's  to  be  done? 

FREYDIERES.  First,  you  ought  to  see  your  lawyer,  since 
he  wishes  to  talk  with  you.  Tell  him  that  I'll  see  him 
to-morrow,  at  the  Palais. 

MME.  CHENEVAS.     I'm  going  there  now.     [She  goes  out.] 

CLAIRE.  [Seeing  that  FREYDIERES  makes  a  movement 
towards  her.}  No,  no,  don't  come  near  me;  don't  tempt 
me  here, — or  I  shall  throw  myself  into  your  arms  and  kiss 
you,  regardless 

FREYDIERES.     My  darling! 

CLAIRE.  O,  my  dear  Jacques,  all  this  long  week  without 
seeing  you !  Although  it  has  been  only  eight  days  since  you 
left,  it  seems  months  to  me.  Never  has  time  dragged  so 
dolefully.  Oh,  I'm  so  happy  to  see  you  again !  I  hope  you 
had  a  miserable  time.  Did  you  think  of  me  down  there? 

FREYDIERES.  I  passed  a  sad  week  myself, — especially  a 
chilly  New  Year's. — What's  that? 

CLAIRE.     Nothing.     I  thought  I  heard  some  one  coming. 

FREYDIERES.     Your  husband  is  at  home? 

CLAIRE.  [In  a  formal  tone.]  Yes;  the  maid  has  told 
him  you  are  here.  You  stayed  alone  with  your  mother? 

FREYDIERES.  Alone!  For  four  days  we  had  uncles, 
aunts,  cousins,  and  the  distant  relatives  who  are  always 
there  at  such  times.  I  was  obliged  to  look  after  all  these 
people ;  I  wasn't  allowed  even  my  dearest  thoughts. — It  was 
maddening ! 


210  MAURICE  DONNAY 

CLAIRE.  Yes,  when  people  are  obliged  to  be  separated, 
the  only  thing  for  them  is  solitude.  It's  cruel  enough  not 
to  see  each  other,  but  it's  worse  still  not  to  think  of  each 
other. 

FREYDIERES.  And  how  did  you  pass  that  dreadful 
day? 

CLAIRE.  Ah,  my  dear  friend,  my  husband  was  in  a  bad 
humor;  my  sister  wept;  my  mother-in-law  was — my  mother- 
in-law.  I  assure  you  it  was  not  very  lively. 

FREYDIERES.  There  is  good  reason  to  say,  "  New  Year's 
is  heart-breaking  when  one  has  no  family,  hateful  when 
one  has." 

CLAIRE.     Listen! — Did  some  one  ring? 

FREYDIERES.    Yes,  I  think  so. 

[Voice  in  the  hall. 

CLAIRE.  [Listening.]  It's  some  one  for  Etienne.  One 
is  not  very  quiet  here. 

FREYDIERES.     You  did  not  go  away  at  all? 

CLAIRE.  No.  That  is  to  say,  we  went  to  watch  out  the 
old  year  at  the  Ernsteins'. 

FREYDIERES.  O,  you  did!  Tell  me,  how  did  it  pass? 
Did  Mme.  Ernstein  carry  out  her  plan  of  a  vaudeville 
show  ? 

CLAIRE.  Why,  yes.  Mme.  Lacorte  waltzed  with  the 
young  Listel,  reversing — in  more  than  one  sense — all  the 
time,  as  if  they  had  done  nothing  else  all  their  lives. 

FREYDIERES.     It  must  have  been  a  pretty  sight ! 

CLAIRE.  Mme.  des  Trembles  sang  some  jolly  songs; 
Monsieur  Loriot  accompanied  her  at  the  piano. 

FREYDIERES.  And  didn't  Mme.  Ernstein  take  part  in 
the  vaudeville? 

CLAIRE.  She  sang  and  danced  a  Spanish  dance  with 
Monsieur  de  Meillan. 

FREYDIERES.     So  there  is  still  a  Spain? 


THE  OTHER  DANGER  211 

CLAIRE.  She  had  a  costume  which  was  extremely  becom- 
ing— a  very  short  skirt. 

FREYDIERES.  Of  course.  In  this  kind  of  show  the  shorter 
the  better. 

CLAIRE.  Monsieur  de  Meillan  was  dressed  like  a 
toreador. 

FREYDIERES.  It  must  have  been  amusing  to  see  all  those 
silly  women  play  the  fool  with  their  lovers. 

CLAIRE.     Amusing?     No — just  the  opposite! 

FREYDIERES.  Ah,  so  it  was  not  only  the  waltz  that  was 
reversed  in  that  company !  Why  do  you  laugh  ? 

CLAIRE.  I  laugh  because  there  was  one  thing  especially 
that  was  really  funny.  All  the  people  who  had  taken  part 
in  the  singing  and  dancing  thought  they  looked  so  well  in 
their  costumes  that  they  kept  them  on  afterwards ;  among 
others  little  Mme.  Plotter,  who  was  dressed  as  a  drummer- 
boy  of  the  Republic,  to  sing  children's  roundelays. 

FREYDIERES.    No ! 

CLAIRE.     It's  the  strict  truth ! 

FREYDIERES.    But  she's  a  woman  of  sixty. 

CLAIRE.  Yes,  and  this  costume  was  so  little  in  keeping 
with  her  age  that  it  seemed  a  mockery  to  compliment  her. 
So  the  whole  evening  people  acted  as  if  they  didn't 
notice  it.  She  certainly  reached  the  limit  of  the  ridicu- 
lous. 

FREYDIERES.    Did  any  one  make  love  to  you? 

CLAIRE.  Oh,  no !  When  a  woman  loves  a  man  as  I  love 
you,  she  is  safe:  there  is  a  certain  atmosphere  about  her 
which  protects  her  from  all  attempts;  as  within  her,  a 
certain  force  which  protects  her  against  all  temptations. 
People  feel  it. 

FREYDIERES.  However,  Ernstein  is  always  very  attentive 
to  you? 

CLAIRE.     Yes,  when  you  are  not  there.     What  of  that? 


212  MAURICE  DONNAY 

He  commenced  and  he  continues  without  hope;  it's  a  deli- 
cate homage  he  pays  me. 

FREYDIERES.  Oh!  Without  hope!  Ernstein  is  one  of 
those  men  who  have  some  sweeping  theories  about  women; 
he  is  always  waiting  for  his  chance. 

CLAIRE.  He  may  wait  as  long  as  he  cares  to.  You  are 
not  jealous? 

FREYDIERES.  No,  and  it's  not  necessary,  either,  for  you 
to  wish  it. 

[During  these  last  words  ETIENNE  has  entered. 

ETIENNE.  Ah,  here  is  my  good  Freydieres.  How  are 
you,  my  dear  friend?  I  hope  you've  taken  a  vacation. 

FREYDIERES.     Oh,  barely  a  week. 

ETIENNE.  Still,  you're  lucky  to  be  able  to  go  away  even 
for  a  week.  I  can't  do  it.  When  I  think  that  in  the  four 
years  since  we  came  to  Paris  I  haven't  found  a  moment 
to  go  back  to  my  old  home  in  Dauphine ! 

FREYDIERES.     You're  always  very  busy. 

ETIENNE.  Don't  speak  of  that !  Ernstein  leaves  me 
everything  to  do.  He  does  nothing — he's  never  there. 
He  starts  this  evening  for  San  Remo.  Oh,  he'll  not  kill 
himself.  By  the  way,  Claire,  you  don't  know  what  I've 
just  heard? 

CLAIRE.     No. 

ETIENNE.     Delanglu  has  been  here. 

CLAIRE.     Delanglu? 

ETIENNE.  Yes,  an  old  schoolmate.  He  told  me,  and  he 
has  it  on  good  authority,  that  Ernstein  is  to  be  nominated 
an  officer. 

CLAIRE.     What!  an  officer? 

ETIENNE.  Yes,  an  officer  of  the  Legion  of  Honor.  Not 
in  the  territorial,  you  may  be  sure !  It's  done  and  the 
nomination  will  appear  in  a  few  days  in  the  State  Records. 

CLAIRE.     Well,  what  of  it? 


THE  OTHER  DANGER  213 

ETIENNE.  What  of  it!  It's  shocking — it's — disgusting 
— it's  abominable ! 

CLAIRE.     Oh,  abominable ! 

ETIENNE.  Oh,  you're  just  like  all  the  rest. — Good 
heavens !  You  find  it  perfectly  natural  that  Ernstein  should 
be  nominated  "  officer,"  while  your  husband  is  nothing,  noth- 
ing at  all.  You  think  it's  all  right  that  I  should  work  and 
wear  myself  out  as  I  do  and  that  he  should  be  decorated. 

CLAIRE.     What  does  it  matter  to  you? 

ETIENNE.  It  exasperates  me,  shocks  me — the  injustice 
shocks  me.  It's  not  because  I  care  for  a  miserable  bit  of 
ribbon.  Oh,  great  gods,  I  am  above  that! 

CLAIRE.     Well,  what  then? 

ETIENNE.  Simply,  in  all  this,  I  don't  think  Ernstein  is 
acting  on  the  square  towards  me.  I  had  to  learn  of  his 
nomination  from  Delanglu ! 

FREYDIERES.     He  probably  wanted  to  surprise  you. 

ETIENNE.  Most  of  all,  I  think  he  lacks  decency.  Yes, 
he  ought  to  have  the  loyalty,  the  decency,  to  say  to  the 
influential  persons  that  he  knows,  "  I  have  a  conscientious 
partner,  a  devoted  friend,  who  makes  all  the  sketches  for 
these  works  for  which  you  load  me  with  honors ;  because  I, 
Ernstein,  am  totally  incapable  and  have  remained  what  I 
was  at  the  '  Tech./  that  is,  a  dunce,  a  veritable  dunce." 
Come,  isn't  that  true  ? 

FREYDIERES.  Remember,  my  dear  friend,  that  it  is  very 
difficult  for  Ernstein  to  pass  such  judgment  upon  himself. 
All  the  same,  we  must  not  exaggerate.  Ernstein  is  not 
without  merit — he's  a  first-class  administrator. 

ETIENNE.     With  the  supreme  merit  of  having  money. 

FREYDIERES.  Well,  that  is  an  advantage  for  you,  for  he 
saves  you  all  financial  anxiety;  and  for  students  like  you, 
peace  of  mind  is  most  essential. 

ETIENNE.     And  obscurity.     [He  walks  back  and  forth 


214  MAURICE  BONN  AY 

with  long  strides.  CLAIRE  and  FREYDIERES  exchange  looks 
of  weariness.]  As  for  this  dome,  the  famous  dome  of  the 
Exposition — it  is  I  who  have  made  all  the  calculations.  I 
have  gone  over  them  more  than  ten  times  to  make  sure 
I  have  made  no  mistake.  Just  think  of  that  responsi- 
bility! I  have  worked  all  night  many  a  time — I  didn't  eat 
— I  didn't  sleep — all  for  what?  That  it  should  be  known 
everywhere  simply  as  the  Ernstein  Dome.  Ernstein  Dome, 
that's  fine !  It's  a  comedy !  Ah !  fame  and  popularity  will 
come  easily  to  him.  Well,  I  shall  be  an  obscure  associate 
all  my  life. 

CLAIRE.  Haven't  you  yourself  some  associates  more 
humble  than  you?  You  shouldn't  always  look  merely  at 
those  above  you;  and  if  you  complain  at  having  worked 
all  night  several  times,  what  words  of  pity  will  you  find 
for  those  unfortunate  workmen  who  were  killed  last  week 
when  a  staging  fell  down? 

ETIENNE.  What  has  that  to  do  with  the  case?  Noth- 
ing at  all;  it  is  not  only  people  who  fall  from  stagings 
that  are  killed.  I  have  troubles  enough  to  kill  me  one 
of  these  days.  Bah !  I'm  simply  a  stalking-horse. 

CLAIRE.  In  what  way?  Ernstein  has  kept  his  prom- 
ises. He  made  a  position  for  you;  he  gives  you  a  share 
in  the  profits;  that's  all  he  promised.  These  troubles 
you  speak  of  you  make  yourself,  and  you  are  irritated 
simply  because  your  self-conceit  is  wounded. 

ETIENNE.  Self-conceit — that's  just  it,  of  course!  Ah, 
you  decide  it  easily.  But  women  don't  understand  anything 
of  such  matters — the  women,  good  heavens  ! — the  women — 
provided  the  husband  works,  makes  money,  as  they  say  in 
America — the  rest  is  of  no  account.  That's  what  the  hus- 
band is  for.  All  the  same,  I  was  happier  when  I  was  at 
Grenoble. 

CLAIRE.     But   down  there  your  irritation  was   just  as 


THE  OTHER  DANGER  215 

bad;  everywhere  you  saw  injustice,  unfairness;  you  took 
offense  at  everything;  you  were  continually  repeating  that 
life,  under  such  conditions,  was  no  longer  bearable — just 
exactly  what  you  say  now,  and  what  I  foresaw  you  would 
say. 

ETIENNE.  Oh,  it's  understood  that  I  am  insufferable;  I 
can't  stay  anywhere  nor  get  on  with  anybody;  that's  what 
you  want  to  say,  I  suppose?  But  since  you  knew  me  so 
well,  you  should  have  kept  me  from  accepting  Ernstein's 
proposals. 

CLAIRE.  You  accepted  them  contrary  to  my  advice,  and 
your  decision  was  irrevocable.  Don't  shift  the  responsi- 
bility, then.  Besides,  this  is  not  the  first  discussion  we  have 
had  on  this  subject — and  it  won't  be  the  last,  unfortu- 
nately ! 

ETIENNE.  Oh,  yes — everything's  all  right ;  you  are  satis- 
fied— that's  the  principal  thing.  [He  takes  out  his  match.] 
Half -past  three;  I  must  go. 

CLAIRE.    Where  are  you  going? 

ETIENNE.  I'm  going  to  the  factory  to  see  how  the  work 
is  getting  on — while  Ernstein  is  preparing  to  go  to  the 
Riviera  to  rest  from  my  toils.  It's  beastly  weather, 
too. 

CLAIRE.    Can't  you  put  it  off  until  to-morrow? 

ETIENNE.  [Shrugging  his  shoulders.]  To-morrow!  I 
have  an  engagement  with  the  architect  to-day.  An  engage- 
ment with  an  architect  is  not  put  off  so  easily  as  that. 
That's  of  no  interest  to  you,  of  course.  It's  raining;  by 
Jove,  how  it  rains  ! — but  that  doesn't  make  any  difference ; 
I  shall  flounder  in  the  mud,  that's  all.  What  do  I  risk? 
A  cold;  at  the  worst,  bronchitis,  inflammation  of  the  lungs. 
That's  not  to  be  compared,  evidently,  with  those  unfortu- 
nate workmen  who  were  killed  in  falling  from  a  staging. 
Oh,  no!  Well,  good-by,  Freydieres.  By  the  way,  I  need 


216  MAURICE  DONNAY 

to  talk  with  you  about  that  patent — I  should  like  very 
much  to  avoid  a  lawsuit. 

FREYDIERES.     I  am  at  your  disposal. 

ETIENNE.  I'll  come  to  see  you  to-morrow.  What  day 
is  it  to-morrow?  Friday?  Then,  perhaps  I  can't.  Well, 
then,  come  to  dine  with  us;  that's  much  easier.  We'll  talk 
after  dinner.  Arrange  it  with  Claire.  [He  goes  out.] 

CLAIRE.  You've  heard  him.  You  see,  I'm  not  exaggerat- 
ing when  I  tell  you  how  disagreeable  he  is  becoming. 

FREYDIERES.  He'll  never  forget  that  he  led  his  class; 
so  he'll  never  be  able  to  stand  having  any  one  ahead  of  him. 
Poor  man,  he  is  to  be  pitied ! 

CLAIRE.  No  doubt;  but  the  rest  of  us,  who  have  to  stand 
him,  are  also  to  be  pitied.  Ah !  I  assure  you,  life  isn't  very 
amusing  these  days. 

FREYDIERES.    But  you  ought  to  be  used  to  it  by  this  time. 

CLAIRE.  I  ought;  but  it  is  always  painful  for  me — every 
time  I  see  him  so  discontented  and  unjust.  He  can't  en- 
dure Ernstein  any  more. 

FREYDIERES.  He's  his  partner — he  has  only  to  observe 
the  rules  of  partnership. 

CLAIRE.  Well,  let's  not  talk  any  more  about  him.  You 
are  here!  You  are  here — that's  the  chief  thing.  Ah,  you 
see,  I  have  so  much  need  to  feel  that  I  am  loved. 

FREYDIERES.  I  love  you,  my  darling;  and  I  love  you 
more  when  I  see  you  unhappy. 

CLAIRE.     Is  that  true?     Then  I'd  like  to  be  so  always. 

FREYDIERES.     No,  that's  not  necessary. 

CLAIRE.  Remember,  I  have  been  a  whole  week  alone. 
You  mustn't  be  gone  so  long  again.  When  you're  away  my 
poor  heart  is  cold. 

FREYDIERES.  My  poor  darling!  Yes,  we  need  to  be  to- 
gether. Listen,  now!  I'm  going  to  say  good-by  to  you. 

CLAIRE.     So  soon! 


THE  OTHER  DANGER  217 

FREYDIERES.  Wait.  I'm  going  back  home — to  our  home 
— where  everything  is  ready  to  receive  you,  and  you  will 
come  to  join  me  very  soon.  Will  you  come? 

CLAIRE.     Oh!  I  can't. 

FREYDIERES.     Why? 

CLAIRE.     I  must  call  on  Mme.  Ernstein. 

FREYDIERES.     Oh!     Can't  you  go  there  another  time? 

CLAIRE.  Why,  no;  it's  her  first  Thursday — her  first 
Thursday. 

FREYDIERES.  The  devil  take  Mme.  Ernstein  and  her 
Thursday;  really,  she  should  have  chosen  another  day. 

CLAIRE.     She  didn't  know. 

FREYDIERES.  Then,  make  your  call  at  once  and  come 
afterwards. 

CLAIRE.     Afterwards  I  shall  be  with  Madeleine. 

FREYDIERES.  Oh!  that's  it;  Madeleine  now.  Can't  you 
get  rid  of  her? 

CLAIRE.  Oh,  get  rid  of  her!  I  don't  like  that  word, 
when  it's  used  about  my  daughter. 

FREYDIERES.  Most  certainly !  When  it  concerns  your 
daughter,  it  is  necessary  to  weigh  one's  words.  Ah!  I 
shall  finish  by  hating  the  child,  if  she  is  always  to  come  be- 
tween us. 

CLAIRE.     Oh !  don't  say  that. 

FREYDIERES.  Why,  yes,  I  will  say  it.  Look  here — put 
yourself  in  my  place:  I  come  here,  happy  to  see  you  again, 
and  everything  conspires  against  my  joy;  first,  it  is  the 
bad  humor  of  your  husband;  then  it  is  Mme.  Ernstein's 
Thursday;  then  Madeleine!  Don't  you  understand  that 
I  should  like  to  feel  that  you  belong  to  me  a  little  more? 
For  a  whole  week  I  have  lived  in  hope  and  expectation, 
and  now  you  refuse  me. 

CLAIRE.  I  don't  refuse  you.  I  have  explained  to  you 
why  it  is  impossible.  I'll  come  to-morrow. 


218  MAURICE  DONNAY 

FREYDIERES.  To-morrow  it  will  be  something  else. 
Madeleine  will  probably  have  a  drawing  lesson  or  music 
lesson  and  you  will  have  to  go  with  her. 

CLAIRE.  That's  not  it — but  she's  no  longer  a  child; 
she  will  soon  be  a  young  lady.  You've  not  yet  realized 
that? 

FREYDIERES.     What  then? 

CLAIRE.  Then  you  ought  to  understand  the  precautions 
I  must  take  with  her. 

FREYDIERES.     What  precautions? 

CLAIRE.  Only  think — if  she  should  ever  suspect!  An 
accident,  any  imprudence  on  my  part,  would  be  sufficient 
to  change  this  unsuspecting  child  into  a  clear-sighted  judge. 
I  am  obliged  to  take  her  to-day,  but  don't  conclude  from 
that  that  she  is  always  between  us. 

FREYDIERES.  [With  raised  voice.]  She  certainly  is  al- 
ways between  us. 

CLAIRE.     Don't  speak  so  loud. 

FREYDIERES.  She  certainly  is ! — Remember,  when  you 
came  to  Paris,  when  we  met  again,  it  was  on  her  account 
that  you  struggled  so  long  against  me,  against  yourself,  and 
against  your  love.  And  in  those  first  days,  when  I  begged 
you  to  go  away  with  me,  so  that  we  might  love  each  other 
freely,  it  was  still  on  her  account  that  you  remained. 

CLAIRE.  I  could  not  give  her  up,  nor  set  her  such  an 
example.  Most  certainly  I  was  not  afraid  of  the  scandal 
for  myself. 

FREYDIERES.  It  would  have  been  only  an  apparent  scan- 
dal, and  of  short  duration,  at  that.  At  any  rate,  it  would 
have  been  preferable  to  a  constant  deception,  to  this  re- 
spectable immorality  we  have  accepted  and  from  which 
we  are  continually  suffering. 

CLAIRE.  Yes,  I  sometimes  think  so,  especially  when  I 
see  you  like  this,  reproaching  me  for  the  least  opposition, 


THE  OTHER  DANGER  219 

and  for  the  sacrifice  I  have  made  to  remain  with  my 
daughter.  It  is  not  generous  on  your  part,  for  you  ought 
to  know  perfectly  well  that  I,  too,  feel  the  bitterness  of  it 
deeply. 

FREYDIERES.  I'm  not  reproaching  you  for  anything; 
only  to-day  you  make  me  foresee  that  our  situation,  already 
so  complicated,  is  going  to  become  still  more  so  because 
your  daughter  is  growing  up — that  there  is  going  to  be 
in  our  love  still  more  annoyance,  constraint,  deceit,  lies, 
comedy — for  it  is  that  at  bottom ;  there  is  quite  enough 
as  it  is!  In  that  case,  then,  it  would  be  better  for  us  to 
have  two  existences — frankly,  separate. 

CLAIRE.     Separate? — What  do  you  mean? 

FREYDIERES.  I'll  not  come  here  any  more — I'll  see  you 
at  my  home,  when  you  can  come.  In  this  way  I  shall 
escape  so  many  things  that  hurt  me,  vex  me,  and  make  me 
unjust.  I  know,  if  we  have  only  rare  moments  to  spend 
together,  I  shall  not  grieve  you  with  these  recriminations 
which  are  the  result  of  our  irritating  position. 

CLAIRE.  Can  two  beings,  who  love  each  other,  be  con- 
tent with  those  hours  alone,  however  intimate  they  may  be? 
Remember,  we  tried  it  in  the  beginning,  but  we  weren't 
able  to  keep  it  up.  In  the  first  place,  what  excuse  would 
you  make  for  not  coming  here  any  more? 

FREYDIERES.     I  found  one  very  well  for  coming. 

CLAIRE.  That  was  easier !  Circumstances  have  been 
favorable  to  your  becoming  the  intimate  friend  of  the  house. 
Let  us  profit  by  it. 

FREYDIERES.  Oh,  we  do  profit  by  it.  On  this  side  we 
have  nothing  to  complain  of.  Every  evening,  if  I  like,  my 
place  at  table  is  kept  for  me  between  you  and  your  sister 
and  opposite  your  husband  and  daughter. 

CLAIRE.    After  all,  we  are  no  exceptions. 

FREYDIERES.     We  ought  to  be. 


220  MAURICE  DONNAY 

CLAIRE.  We  ought,  both  of  us,  to  have  begun  sooner 
and  to  have  remained  firm  in  our  duty.  This  atmosphere 
of  constraint  and  of  lies  weighs  upon  me  as  much  as  upon 
you;  but  we  breathe  it  together,  and  when  I  can't  be  wholly 
yours,  as  to-day,  I  have  at  least  the  consolation  of  seeing 
you,  of  speaking  to  you,  of  hearing  you.  You  know  I  need 
to  have  you  a  part  of  my  life,  to  belong  to  it.  I  have  ar- 
ranged everything  for  that.  I  am  too  much  accustomed 
to  it — and  you  want  it,  all  of  a  sudden 

FREYDIERES.     It  can  be  done  gradually. 

CLAIRE.  [In  tears.]  Then  it's  the  end  of  everything. 
It  would  be  better  to  end  it  all,  at  once,  if  that  is  what 
you  want,  rather  than  to  separate  our  lives,  as  you  propose. 
But  I  don't  want  to.  First,  I  couldn't — it  is  more  than  I 
could  endure.  At  the  mere  thought  of  it,  as  you  see,  it 
seems  as  if  I  were  falling  into  a  deep,  dark  abyss — it 
seems  as  if  I — I — I  don't  know — I  don't  care — it's  all 
alike  to  me. 

FREYDIERES.  Claire,  Claire,  don't  weep ! — I  beg  of  you — 
don't  weep  like  that !  What  if  your  daughter  should  come  ? 
I'm  very  sorry;  I  didn't  think — you  haven't  understood  me 
at  all. 

CLAIRE.  I  understood  that  you  said  some  perfectly 
dreadful  things  to  me. 

FREYDIERES.     Not  dreadful,  but  sensible. 

CLAIRE.     Oh ! 

FREYDIERES.  You  began  it; — I  only  followed  you; — 
you  told  me 

CLAIRE.     I — I  told  you  something  sensible? 

FREYDIERES.  Why,  yes,  you  said  that  Madeleine  might 
notice 

CLAIRE.     But  she  won't  notice  anything  at  all. 

FREYDIERES.     All  right,  then. 

CLAIRE.     It's  true.     I  don't  know  why  I  told  you  that. 


THE  OTHER  DANGER  221 

We  are  not  placarding  ourselves,  thank  heavens !  Then 
she  worships  me  blindly ;  she  is  innocence  itself ;  she  doesn't 
know  other  girls  who  are  sophisticated;  she  has  always 
stayed  with  me,  and  always  seen  you  in  this  house.  How 
do  you  expect  such  a  thought  to  enter  her  head? 

FREYDIERES.     Very  true. 

CLAIRE.     You  laugh? 

FREYDIERES.  I  smile  and  you  cry; — I'm  doubly  dis- 
armed. 

CLAIRE.     You  think  I'm  inconsistent. 

FREYDIERES.     No  more  than  I. 

CLAIRE.  You  shouldn't  expect  me  to  be  heroic — you 
mustn't  torment  me.  And  especially,  don't  take  it  out  on 
Madeleine — don't  detest  her — love  her.  If  you  only  knew 
what  a  delightful  companion  she  is  for  me  and  how  pain- 
ful the  house  would  often  be  without  her,  who  is  its 
brightness  and  joy!  She  is  like  a  gay  little  lily  blooming 
beside  me,  and  when  you  are  away,  as  in  these  last  days, 
she  keeps  me  from  finding  it  so  dreary.  She  is  the  only  one, 
too,  who  knows  how  to  talk  to  me  about  you. 

FREYDIERES.     Indeed!       Poor  child! 

CLAIRE.  I  have  already  had  enough  remorse  in  divid- 
ing my  affection  between  you  and  her,  for  she  loves  me 
alone.  There  she  is  better  than  I. 

FREYDIERES.  It's  not  the  same  thing;  a  woman  can  be 
both  a  lover  and  a  mother.  You're  proof  of  that.  She, 
also,  later,  will  divide  her  affection  between  you  and  the 
man  she  will  choose — if  she  divides  it — for  she  is  capable 
of  giving  her  body  and  soul  to  this  stranger.  Then  you 
wouldn't  count. 

CLAIRE.  Oh,  stop,  stop !  Perhaps  it's  the  truth — and 
it  is  for  her  especially  that  I  have  sacrificed  the  most 
beautiful  thing  in  the  world — freedom  in  love. 

FREYDIERES.     Yes,  freedom  in  love.    Ah,  Claire,  do  you 


222  MAURICE  DONNAY 

sometimes  think  of  the  happiness  denied  us?  Only  this 
morning  I  was  thinking  of  it  in  the  train  which  was  bringing 
me  to  you.  Think  how  we  shall  never  travel  together,  we 
two,  alone;  that  no  train  will  ever  bear  us  towards  those 
azure  shores  where  lie  the  fair  cities  of  our  dreams,  the 
pleasant  lands  of  our  imagination ;  that  we  shall  die  without 
ever  having  gazed  upon  them  together !  Nor  can  we  ever 
live  alone  together,  under  the  same  roof,  in  a  peaceful  home, 
and  enjoy  the  charming  intimacy  of  long  talks  among 
familiar  things;  we  shall  never  know  the  happiness  of  long 
hours  without  fear  of  interruption.  Oh,  my  darling,  these 
thoughts  are  bitter.  Here  lies  all  the  sadness  of  such  a 
union  as  ours. — Well,  the  bright  sunshine  is  not  for  us; 
we  are  condemned  to  be  only  two  poor  little  shadows,  in 
a  perpetual  twilight,  as  at  this  moment. 

CLAIRE.  We  are  not  always  shadows;  think  of  the  mo- 
ments when  I'm  a  woman  in  your  arms !  We  have  no  free- 
dom in  our  love,  that  is  true;  but,  to  pay  for  it,  I  love  you 
all  the  more. 

FREYDIERES.  Yes,  and  I  love  you — I  adore  you.  You 
know  very  well  I'll  do  what  you  want.  I  beg  your  par- 
don for  having  given  you  pain,  and  I  kiss  these  dear  eyes 
of  yours  that  have  shed  tears. 

CLAIRE.  Ah,  my  poor  eyes,  how  many  tears  they  have 
shed  on  your  account !  You  were  very  naughty  j  ust  now — 
so  naughty  even 

FREYDIERES.     That  you  will  come  to-morrow. 

CLAIRE.  Yes!  [They  hold  each  other  in  a  long  and 
close  embrace.]  Some  one  is  coming.  Be  careful! 

MADELEINE.      [Entering.]     Oh,  how  dark  it  is  here! 

CLAIRE.  Yes.  Night  comes  quickly.  [She  turns  on  the 
electric  light.] 

MADELEINE.     Good-evening,  Monsieur  Freydieres. 

FREYDIERES.     Good-evening,  Madeleine. 


THE  OTHER  DANGER  223 

MADELEINE.  Mamma,  do  you  know  it  is  five  o'clock? 
Oughtn't  we  to  go  to  Madame  Ernstein's? 

CLAIRE.     I  am  going  now  to  get  ready. 

FREYDIERES.  Good-by,  Madame ;  I  am  going  to  leave  you 
to  make  your  call. 

MADELEINE.  You're  going  away  just  when  I  come? 
Don't  you  know  that  isn't  very  polite?  You  might  stay 
a  little  while  with  me. 

CLAIRE.  Why,  yes;  stay  with  Madeleine.  We'll  go 
together.  I  shan't  be  long.  I'll  be  back  in  a  minute. 
[She  goes  out.] 

MADELEINE.     You  ought  to  go  with  us  to  the  Ernsteins'. 

FREYDIERES.     Oh,  no — I  have  to  go  home — I  must  work. 

MADELEINE.     Did  you  have  a  fine  trip? 

FREYDIERES.    Very  fine. 

MADELEINE.     Is  your  mother  well? 

FREYDIERES.     As  well  as  possible. 

MADELEINE.  Thank  you  for  the  chocolates  you  sent  me 
in  that  lovely  box — it  was  almost  too  fine.  Come  here 
and  let  me  scold  you  a  little.  No,  seriously,  you  have 
spoiled  me. 

FREYDIERES.  You  have  already  thanked  me  in  the  nice 
little  letter  you  wrote. 

MADELEINE.  Yes,  I  think  it  was  nice.  I'm  awfully 
glad  to  see  you  again;  you've  been  gone  only  a  week  and 
yet  it  seems  much  longer.  It's  astonishing  what  an  empty 
place  your  absence  made  here.  I'm  so  used  to  seeing  you 
and  talking  to  you.  Well,  I  miss  you — and  then,  you 
are  my  friend — aren't  you? 

FREYDIERES.  Why,  of  course.  And  did  you  receive 
many  presents? 

MADELEINE.  Enough  to  be  satisfied.  First,  mamma 
gave  me  a  very  pretty  ring.  See ! 

FREYDIERES.     Yes,  it's  very  pretty. 


224  MAURICE  DONNAY 

MADELEINE.  Oh,  Mamma  has  lots  of  taste.  Papa  gave 
me  a  very  beautiful  album  with  my  monogram  on  it  and  a 
gold  lock  and  key  so  that  I  can  lock  it. 

FREYDIERES.     Lock  it? 

MADELEINE.     Yes,  it's  to  write  my  diary. 

FREYDIERES.     Your  diary?     Marie  Bashkirtseff. 

MADELEINE.     Don't  know  her. 

FREYDIERES.  And  what  are  you  going  to  write  in  it,  if 
I  may  ask? 

MADELEINE.  Oh,  I  don't  know — my  thoughts,  my  im- 
pressions  

FREYDIERES.     You  have  impressions? 

MADELEINE.  I  don't  know — I  think — perhaps  you  think 
I  grow  like  a  pumpkin. 

FREYDIERES.     Oh,  ho !    A  pumpkin — what  a  thing  to  say ! 

MADELEINE.     You  are  insulting. 

FREYDIERES.  So  you  decided  that  from  the  very  first 
day  of  January  of  this  year  you  would  think,  you  would 
feel? 

MADELEINE.  From  the  first  day  of  January  exactly, 
as  you  said — and  you  couldn't  have  said  it  better.  Yes, 
I  have  some  new  sensations — some  serious  thoughts,  solemn, 
even.  I  don't  look  upon  life  as  I  did  before. 

FREYDIERES.      [Smiling.]      You  are  progressing. 

MADELEINE.  Yes.  You  needn't  smile — I  know  you  al- 
ways think  of  me  as  a  child. 

FREYDIERES.  Oh,  what  an  idea!  I  shouldn't  dare. 
What  made  you  think  that? 

MADELEINE.  It's  so;  you  always  treat  me  like  a  "  back- 
fisch." 

FREYDIERES.  Ha,  ha !  A  "  backfisch !  " — Where  did  you 
get  that  word? 

MADELEINE.  It's  a  German  word  that  means  a  fried 
fish — and  in  Germany  they  call  girls  that  when  they  are  at 


THE  OTHER  DANGER  225 

the  disagreeable  age,  or,  if  you  like  it  better,  at  the  silly 
age; — you  know — short  skirts  and  pigtails  down  the  back. 
I'm  past  that.  I  can  .understand  serious  things. 

FREYDIERES.  I  don't  doubt  it.  And  what  else  have  they 
given  you? 

MADELEINE.  Grandma  gave  me  a  bronze,  for  my  room — 
an  artistic  bronze,  since  it  represents  a  Cupid  blowing  soap 
bubbles.  I've  put  it  on  my  bureau;  but  when  Grandma  goes 
away  I  shall  stuff  it  into  a  cupboard.  I  never  saw  any- 
thing so  ugly. 

FREYDIERES.     Is  it  so  ugly  as  all  that  ? 

MADELEINE.     Would  you  like  it?     I'll  give  it  to  you. 

FREYDIERES.     Oh,  no. 

MADELEINE.  There,  you  see !  a  soap  bubble  in  bronze — 
not  very  light,  is  it?  It  looks  like  a  cannon  ball. 

FREYDIERES.     Don't  get  excited;   calm  yourself! 

MADELEINE.  Yes,  I'll  stuff  it  into  a  cupboard  and  I'll 
take  it  out  only  when  Grandma  comes  again.  You  under- 
stand ? 

FREYDIERES.     Oh,  perfectly. 

MADELEINE.      [Imitating  him.]     Oh,  perfectly ! 

[She  bursts  out  laughing.    CLAIRE  enters. 

CLAIRE.  Why!  How  gay  you  are!  That's  right,  don't 
stop ;  you'll  not  laugh  any  younger. 

MADELEINE.     Perhaps  I  shall  not  laugh  when  I'm  older. 

CLAIRE.     Well,  let  us  go. 

MADELEINE.     Andiamo! 

[CLAIRE  goes  out  first,  then  MADELEINE,  followed  by 
FREYDIERES,  who  closes  the  door.  The  curtain  falls.] 

ACT  III. 

[Eighteen   months   later,   at   the   ERNSTEINS'.      The   little 
drawing-room  is  small  but   elegant.     A   French  win- 


226  MAURICE  DONNAY 

dow  at  the  left  opens  into  the  garden;  at  the  rear  is  a 
staircase,  giving  on  to  a  gallery  leading  to  the  ball- 
room. A  door  is  at  the  right. 

When  the  curtain  rises,  two  young  men,  LUYNAIS  and 
CLEMENTIER,  are  talking  near  the  recess  of  the  French 
window  which  leads  into  the  garden;  a  third  young 
man,  PRABERT,  comes  to  join  them.] 

PRABERT.     What  are  you  doing  there? 
LUYNAIS.     You  see,  we're  taking  the  air  between  two  airs. 
CLEMENTIER.     By  George,  aren't  they  through  with  that 
concert   yet ! 

PRABERT.     Listen!     What  do  you  think? 

[The  voice  of  a  woman  is  heard  singing:] 
"  Amour,  viens  aider  ma  faiblesse 
Verse  le  poison  dans  son  sein !  " 
LUYNAIS.     Who's  singing? 
PRABERT.     Why,  it's  Mme.  Ernstein. 
CLEMENTIER.     No  one  has  a  better  right;  she's  in  her 
own  house! 

[The  voice  of  a  man  is  now  heard  singing:] 
"  J'ai  gravi  la  montagne 

Pour  venir  jusqu'  a  toi. 
Dagon  qui  m'  accompagne 

M'a  guide  vers  ton  toit !  " 

LUYNAIS.     Ah!  it's  Mme.  Ernstein.     Listen!     What  a 
heavy  voice  she  has  this  evening! 

PRABERT.     The  "heavy  voice"   is   not  hers;   it  is  the 
Grand-Priest's ! 

CLEMENTIER.     What  Grand-Priest? 

PRABERT.     Where    do    you    come    from?      You    haven't 
looked  at  the  program?     They  are  giving  the  second  act  of 
Samson  and  Dalila  in  costume — magnificent  scenery. 
CLKMENTIER.    Aha! 


THE  OTHER  DANGER  227 

LUYNAIS.  Madame  Ernstein  must  be  very  beautiful  as 
Dalila. 

PRABERT.     Very  beautiful — she  has  a  fitting  gown. 

LUYNAIS.     Yes,  it  fits  her  like  a  glove. 

PRABERT.     You're  a  beast. 

CLEMENTIER.     And  Samson? 

PRABERT.     Is  Monsieur  Fontenay. 

CLEMENTIER.     Bravo !     Bravo ! 

LUYNAIS.  Think!  what  a  wonderful  performance  is  be- 
ing given  here  at  the  Ernsteins'  to-night!  To-morrow  the 
favored  ones  will  be  able  to  say  with  pride,  "  When  we 
were  at  the  Ernsteins',"  Superb! 

CLEMENTIER.     What  lucky  dogs  we  are! 

PRABERT.  You're  at  the  Ernsteins',  to  be  sure,  but  rather 
far  from  the  show.  Go  nearer;  have  the  appearance,  at 
least,  of  being  interested  in  what  is  going  on;  you're  not 
very  polite  to  stay  out  here. 

CLEMENTIER.  My  good  fellow,  we  shall  not  budge  from 
here. 

LUYNAIS.  If  Madame  Ernstein  sings,  that's  her  business ; 
in  a  soiree  like  this  each  one  has  his  own  "  stunt  " ;  ours  is 
to  stay  here  by  the  window. 

CLEMENTIER.  Adonis  and  Narcissus!  [They  take  the 
pose.] 

PRABERT.     Well!     I'm  going  into  the  ballroom. 

LUYNAIS.  [With  emphasis.]  Where  you  should  have 
stayed. 

PRABERT.     And  where  there  are  bewitching  young  girls. 

LUYNAIS.  Oh!  I  know  your  young  girls;  they  are  al- 
ways the  same. 

PRABERT.  There  is  a  new  one — an  adorable  little  thing, 
delightful,  charming,  a  blonde  with  blue  eyes,  a  little  nose 
no  bigger  than  a  hazel-nut,  lips  red  like  two  cherries — 
waist  of  a  wasp,  a  bust 


228  MAURICE  DONNAY 

CLEMENTIER.     Of  a  wasp.     Don't  get  stung! 

PRABERT.     The  bust  of  a  young  goddess — and  hips 

LUYNAIS.     Of  a  wasp.     Go  on ! 

PRABERT.  How  witty  you  think  you  are!  hips  which 
promise 

LUYNAIS.     And   may   never    fulfil 

PRABERT.  And  the  back  of  her  neck  and  shoulders — 
how  I  dote  on  a  beautiful  back! 

LUYNAIS.  Well,  you're  rewarded  often  enough  with  a 
back  view ! 

CLEMENTIER.  And  who  is  this  marvel  about  whom  you 
rave  like  the  young  Montague  when  he  saw  Miss  Capulet 
for  the  first  time? 

PRABERT.     Mademoiselle  Jadain. 

LUYNAIS.     The  daughter  of  Jadain,  Ernstein's  partner? 

PRABERT.     Yes. 

CLEMENTIER.  I  don't  know  her;  but  from  principle  I 
prefer  her  mother.  Every  time  I  have  been  introduced  to  a 
girl  I  have  fallen  hopelessly  in  love  with  the  mother — 
that's  a  mania  with  me.  I  would  give  all  the  girls  here, 
including  her  own  daughter,  for  Madame  Jadain !  Ah ! 
what  a  charming  lover  she  would  be!  Don't  you  think 
so? 

LUYNAIS.     Ask  Freydieres. 

CLEMENTIER.  She  has  always  been  very  much  in  love 
with  him. 

PRABERT.  It  has  lasted  now  for  more  than  five  years, 
and  it's  not  likely  to  stop.  But  jou  should  see  her  daugh- 
ter ;  she's  a  peach ! 

CLEMENTIER.  Prabert  has  great  success  with  the 
girls. 

LUYNAIS.  He's  a  fine-looking  chap  and  has  stunning 
waistcoats — they're  excellent  to  start  a  conversation.  He 
has  plenty  of  cheek,  too.  Under  the  frock  coat  of  a  gen- 


THE  OTHER  DANGER  229 

tleman  he's  a  regular  rowdy;  he  reminds  me  of  a  certain 
favorite  of  a  queen  of  England  who  concealed  a  mean  soul 
under  a  charming  exterior. 

PRABERT.    Say,  now 

LUYNAIS.  That  doesn't  rob  you  of  any  of  your  other 
qualities — chiefly  because  you  haven't  any;  now  you're  los- 
ing your  head  over  this  Mademoiselle  Jadain;  you'll  get 
introduced  to  her,  dance  with  her,  and  tell  her  all  sorts  of 
nasty  things — that's  the  result  of  reading  risque  novels. 
What  pleasure  can  you  find  in  all  that  ? 

PRABERT.  Of  feeling  close  to  me  a  fragile,  delicate 
being. 

LUYNAIS.  What  good  will  that  do  you?  You're  dis- 
gusting. You'll  never  have  the  virtue  of  being  original; 
you'll  always  remain  a  Lovelace. 

PRABERT.  How  do  you  know?  Perhaps  I  shall  marry 
one  of  these  girls  some  day? 

LUYNAIS.  Yes — you  are  quite  capable  of  just  that  thing 
— marrying  a  girl  introduced  to  you  some  evening  at  a  ball. 
How  commonplace !  Ah ! 

CLEMENTIER.     The  music  is  over.     Hear  the  applause ! 

[The  noise  of  clapping  is  heard.  Some  people  come  out 
into  the  little  drawing-room  with  exclamations  of  admira- 
tion. Noise  and  confusion.  There  are  CLAIRE  JADAIN, 
MADELEINE,  MME.  LACORTE,  FREYDIERES,  DE  MEILLAN, 
JADAIN,  HEYBENS,  and  others,  mho  surround  MME.  ERN- 
STEIN  (Dalila),  FONTENAY  (Samson),  and  the  HIGH- 
PRIEST.] 

Such  phrases  as  the  following  are  heard: 

It's  excellent!     Superb! — What  a  delicious,  warm  voice! 

MME.  ERNSTEIN.  Oh,  it's  a  pleasure  to  sing  with  him. 
[She  points  to  Samson.] 

MME.  LACORTE.  What  a  beautiful  couple!  What  a 
charming  duet!  It's  a  joy  to  listen  to  you. 


230  MAURICE  DONNAY 

[Meanwhile,  LUYNAIS  and  CLEMENTIER  have  drawn 
near.] 

LUYNAIS.  [To  MME.  ERNSTEIN.]  Ah,  Madame,  I'm  not 
paying  you  any  compliments. 

CLEMEN-TIER.     You  gave  me  the  shivers. 

MME.  ERNSTEIN.     Really? 

LUYNAIS.     Merely  listening  to  you,  we  became  pale. 

CLEMENTIER.  He's  not  exaggerating — how  can  we  thank 
you  for  the  pleasure  you  have  given  us? 

MME.  ERNSTEIN.  It's  very  easy — in  looking  after  the 
young  ladies,  taking  them  out  for  refreshments,  while  the( 
windows  in  the  ballroom  are  opened  to  let  in  a  little  fresh 
air ; — it  was  so  hot  there !  There  must  be  some  young  ladies 
literally  dying  of  thirst. 

LUYNAIS.  And  they  need  a  supporting  arm  upon 
which  to  lean  as  they  follow  the  slippery  path  to  cham- 
pagne. 

MME.  ERNSTEIN.    You  understood  ? 

LUYNAIS.     They  haven't  any  brothers? 

CLEMENTIER.     No  relatives? 

LUYNAIS.     No  friends? 

MME.  ERNSTEIN.    Go  on,  go  on! 

PRABERT.  [To  MME.  ERNSTEIN.]  Madame,  will  you  in- 
troduce me  to  Mile.  Jadain? 

MME.  ERNSTEIN.    What  did  I  tell  you?    Isn't  she  pretty? 

PRABERT.     Charming ! 

MME.  ERNSTEIN.  And  she's  only  just  eighteen.  She's 
coming  out  this  evening;  it's  her  first  ball.  Promise  me  to 
be  very  proper. 

PRABERT.     But  I'm  not  accustomed 

MME.  ERNSTEIN.  Oh!  I  know  you; — you  have  a  repu- 
tation. 

PRABERT.  I'm  better  than  my  reputation,  I  assure  you. 
There's  going  to  be  dancing,  isn't  there? 


THE  OTHER  DANGER  231 

MME.  ERNSTEIN.  Oh,  it's  rather  late.  We're  going  to 
have  just  a  little  waltz  before  the  cotillon. 

[She  takes  PRABERT  up  to  MADELEINE,  who  is  in  a  little 
group  with  her  mother,  her  father,  and  FREYDIERES.] 

MME.  ERNSTEIN.  Madeleine,  let  me  introduce  Monsieur 
Prabert  to  you. 

PRABERT.  [Bowing.]  Mademoiselle,  will  you  do  me  the 
honor  of  giving  me  the  first  dance? 

MADELEINE.    Yes,  if  you  like. 

PRABERT.    Are  you  not  thirsty? 

MADELEINE.     Yes,  thank  you;  I  am  very  thirsty 

PRABERT.    May  I  take  you  to  the  refreshment  room? 

MADELEINE.  [To  her  mother.]  Mamma,  I  shall  find 
you  here? 

CLAIRE.     Yes,  dear;  you'll  find  me  here  in  this  room. 

[MADELEINE  goes  out  on  the  arm  of  PRABERT;  MME. 
ERNSTEIN  goes  to  another  group.  FONTENAY  talks  with 
the  HIGH-PRIEST,  DE  MEILLAN  with  a  very  pretty  woman, 
MME.  LACORTE.  ERNSTEIN  goes  up  to  a  young  man  with  a 
black  beard,  who  is  all  alone  and  does  not  seem  to  be 
enjoying  himself.] 

ERNSTEIN.    You  are  here  all  alone,  Heybens  ? 

HEYBENS.    Why,  yes. 

ERNSTEIN.  You  are  not  having  a  very  good  time,  are 
you? 

HEYBENS.  I'm  not  bored  at  all.  How  well  Mme.  Ern- 
stein  sang!  I  didn't  know  that  she  had  such  a  beautiful 
voice. 

ERNSTEIN.  You  didn't  know?  Oh,  to  be  sure,  you're 
no  longer  in  Paris. 

HEYBENS.  Yes,  I  left  eight  years  ago  and  returned  only 
the  day  before  yesterday. 

ERNSTEIN.  That's  true.  Well,  yes,  my  wife  is  pas- 
sionately fond  of  music  and  she  sings  fairly  well. 


232  MAURICE  DONNAY 

HEYBENS.  She  sings  like  a  real  artist.  That  must  be 
gratifying  to  you. 

ERNSTEIN.  Gratifying — yes.  There  are  scales — exer- 
cises, you  know.  Such  a  result  isn't  reached  without  prac- 
tising a  great  deal.  And  this  means  effort  and  money. 

HEYBENS.  Tell  me — it  seems  I  know  this  house. 
Didn't  it  belong  to  Juliette  d'Herblay? 

ERNSTEIN.  The  very  same.  When  we  were  married,  she 
had  married  a  Roumanian,  who  took  her  to  his  own  coun- 
try; so  I  bought  her  house. 

HEYBENS.  Well,  yes.  I  should  think  I  do  know  it.  I 
had  a  great  time  here.  One  evening,  I  remember,  we  had 
a  good  dinner,  with  plenty  of  wine.  An  Englishman, 
gloriously  drunk,  bet  that  he  could  dance  holding  the  barrel 
of  a  loaded  revolver  in  his  mouth.  He  fell — just  here — 
near  this  door.  The  revolver  went  off  and  the  man  did  not 
get  up. 

ERNSTEIN.  Yes,  yes,  I  know; — people  have  had  great 
times  here.  Won't  you  take  some  refreshments  ? 

HEYBENS.  No,  thank  you;  I'm  going.  I  feel  like 
a  stranger — you  understand.  After  several  years  of  ab- 
sence, it's  astonishing  how  everything  has  changed  at  Paris. 
I  don't  know  any  one  now. 

ERNSTEIN.  Ah,  stay !  I'm  going  to  introduce  you  to  my 
niece ; — she  is  that  very  pretty  woman  you  see  there,  who 
has  the  appearance  of  a  portrait  by  Van  Loo.  [He  points 
out  MME.  LACORTE.] 

HEYBENS.     That's  true. 

ERNSTEIN.  Ha,  ha !  You  don't  want  to  leave  now.  But 
you  knew  her  when  she  was  a  girl.  Floumoune,  they  used 
to  call  her. 

HEYBENS.  Oh !  it's  Floumoune.  I  shouldn't  have  recog- 
nized her. 

ERNSTEIN.     She's  married;  her  name  is  Mme.  Lacorte. 


THE  OTHER  DANGER  233 

Come,  I'm  going  to  present  you  to  her,  or,  rather,  re- 
present you.  She's  a  first-class  gossip;  she'll  bring  you  up 
to  date  pretty  quickly.  [He  leads  HEYBENS  up  to  MME. 
LACORTE.] 

ERNSTEIN.     Pauline ! 

MME.  LACORTE.    Yes,  uncle  ? 

ERNSTEIN.  Permit  me  to  present  to  you  Monsieur  Hey- 
bens,  one  of  my  good  friends  whom  you  already  know;  he's 
one  of  our  most  remarkable  prospectors.  I  sent  him  to 
Annam  to  study  the  land  and  he  has  discovered  some  gold 
mines  which  will  make  people  open  their  eyes. 

MME.  LACORTE.  I  recognize  Monsieur  Heybens  easily. 
You  have  let  your  beard  grow,  haven't  you? 

HEYBENS.    What  a  memory  you  have,  Madame ! 

MME.  LACORTE.     Haven't  I?    And  you  are  tanned. 

HEYBENS.    The  sun. 

MME.  LACORTE.  I  was  going  to  say — it's  very  becoming 
to  you. 

ERNSTEIN.     Just  think !  he  wanted  to  go  away. 

MME.  LACORTE.     What  a  shame! 

ERNSTEIN.     Because  he  didn't  know  any  one. 

MME.  LACORTE.    How  foolish! 

ERNSTEIN.  So  I  have  brought  him  to  you  to  be 
posted. 

MME.  LACORTE.    You  did  well. 

ERNSTEIN.     It  will  be  a  good  deed  done. 

MME.  LACORTE.     I  shall  do  my  best,  uncle. 

[ERNSTEIN  leaves  them.     They  converse. 

ETIENNE.  [Very  animated.]  You  can't  guess  what  I've 
just  heard.  Ernstein  is  going  to  be  elected  president  of  the 
Builders'  Association — that  man  who  has  never  built  any- 
thing ! 

CLAIRE.  Don't  speak  so  loud.  Don't  get  angry  here;  it's 
neither  the  place  nor  the  time.  Keep  it  till  you  get  home. 


234  MAURICE  DONNAY 

But  honors  will  come  to  you,  also.  Be  a  little  patient.  You 
know  very  well  they  are  keeping  you  in  mind. 

ETIENNE.  I  swear  to  you  that  if  I  am  not  decorated  the 
next  fourteenth  of  July  I'll  leave  Ernstein. 

FREYDIERES.    Where  will  you  go? 

ETIENNE.  Oh,  I'm  not  worried  about  that.  I've  had  fine 
offers — only  in  France  we  are  so  timid.  One  mustn't  hesi- 
tate to  leave  a  place  and,  if  necessary,  the  country. — Why 
not? 

CLAIRE.     I  didn't  say  anything,  my  dear. 

ETIENNE.  [With  force.]  Well,  we'll  go  to  Beauvais — 
we'll  go  to  Beauvais,  I  say.  Proposals  have  been  made  to 
me  to  buy  the  Debelker  concern,  which  will  become  the  firm 
of  Jadain — and  if  I'm  to  slave  for  any  one,  it  will  not  be 
for  Ernstein,  but  for  myself.  [He  continues  to  talk  excit- 
edly while  CLAIRE  leads  him  away  to  calm  him.] 

HEYBENS.     You  are  well  posted. 

MME.  LACORTE.    Of  course. 

HEYBENS.  Go  on.  It  is  very  interesting.  What  about 
Madame  Ernstein? 

MME.  LACORTE.  Well,  the  young  man  with  whom  I  was 
talking  when  my  uncle  interrupted  us  is  M.  de  Meillan,  the 
predecessor  of  Fontenay — the  one  who  sang  the  part  of 
Samson  this  evening  with  my  aunt  and  who  is  the  tenor  she 
loves  for  the  present.  Of  course,  De  Meillan  thinks 
Fontenay  does  not  know  how  to  sing,  that  he  has  a  falsetto 
voice,  and  that  it  is  the  abomination  of  desolation.  As  to 
the  High-Priest,  he's  a  young  man  who  is  also  in  love  with 
my  aunt  and  has  taken  up  singing  to  make  an  excuse  for 
seeing  her.  He  hasn't  any  talent  and  makes  himself  ridicu- 
lous. Besides,  he  has  no  chance;  he  is  a  bass  and  the 
basses  never  get  loved — no  more  in  life  than  in  the  opera. 
The  key  of  F  doesn't  open  the  heart  of  women  in  general 
and  of  my  aunt  in  particular. 


THE  OTHER  DANGER  235 

ERNSTEIN.  [Coming  up.]  Well,  how  are  you  getting 
along?  You  are  posting  Heybens? 

MME.  LACORTE.  [Modestly.]  Yes,  uncle,  I'm  doing  my 
best. 

ERNSTEIN.  Oh !  I'm  easy  on  that  point.  [He  taps  HEY- 
BENS familiarly  on  the  shoulder.]  I  told  you  right;  you're 
in  good  hands.  [He  goes  away.] 

MME.  LACORTE.    Ha !  ha !  it's  always  amusing. 

[At  this  moment  the  only  people  in  the  little  drawing- 
room  are  MME.  LACORTE  and  HEYBENS,  and  at  the  other 
end,  near  the  French-window,  FREYDIERES  and  CLAIRE.] 

HEYBENS.     You're  naughty. 

MME.  LACORTE.  Quite  the  contrary,  I'm  very  nice. 
Are  you  getting  tired  of  me? 

HEYBENS.  Not  a  bit;  you  do  me  the  dis-honors  of  the 
house  so  well.  Tell  me,  is  that  Freydieres,  the  lawyer,  over 
there  near  the  window? 

MME.  LACORTE.    Yes,  it's  he. 

HEYBENS.    With  whom  is  he  talking? 

MME.  LACORTE.     [Laughing.]     Ha!  ha! 

HEYBENS.    Why  do  you  laugh? 

MME.  LACORTE.  Of  course  you  couldn't  know.  It  is 
Madame  Jadain,  the  wife  of  Ernstein's  partner.  I'm  going 
to  tell  you  about  them.  Oh,  it's  a  perfect  romance;  but 
let's  not  stay  here,  especially  as  we  must  be  bothering  them. 
Just  think!  they  were  childhood  friends  and  it  seems, 
ever  since  they've  reached  the  age  of  reason,  they've 
been  madly  in  love.  The  Jadains  have  come  to  Paris  and 
naturally  .  .  . 

[She  leads  him  away,  talking  all  the  time.  Now  the  room 
is  empty,  except  for  CLAIRE  and  FREYDIERES.] 

CLAIRE.    We  are  alone. 

FREYDIERES.    Oh,  alone.     [Ironically.] 

CLAIRE.    Everybody  is  having  refreshments.    Now,  dear, 


236  MAURICE  DONNAY 

you  can  tell  me  whether  my  gown  is  pretty  and  if  you  like 
me  in  it. 

FREYDIERES.     Careful,  careful! 

CLAIRE.     How  prudent  you  are! 

FREYDIERES.     And  how  imprudent  you  are. 

CLAIRE.  I  have  a  chance  to  talk  to  you  and  I'm  going 
to  take  advantage  of  it.  I  don't  see  you  any  more. — For 
the  longest  time  you  haven't  come  to  lunch  or  din- 
ner. 

FREYDIERES.     You  know  why — I  have  been  working. 

CLAIRE.  No  one  respects  your  work  more  than  I ; — but 
you've  been  going  out  to  dinner. 

FREYDIERES.  There  are  some  engagements  I  can't 
avoid. — You  understand  that  in  my  position 

CLAIRE.  Yes,  I  know — I'm  wrong — I  encroach  on  your 
life  and  I  seem  to  want  to  control  your  words  and  deeds. 
That  provokes  you.  I'm  a  bungler,  am  I  not? 

FREYDIERES.    Why,  no. 

CLAIRE.  Oh,  I  obey  the  common  rule  that  when  a  woman 
feels  she's  being  loved  less  she  makes  herself  still  less 
lovable. 

FREYDIERES.  You're  very  hard  on  yourself,  and  you're 
alarmed  without  reason. 

CLAIRE.  It's  your  fault — you  appear  strange  this  even- 
ing. You're  not  as  you  usually  are. 

FREYDIERES.    Why,  yes,  I  am. 

CLAIRE.  No,  I'm  sure  of  it.  You  are  not  angry  with  me, 
are  you?  Have  I  done  anything? 

FREYDIERES.     Oh,  Claire!    Angry,  why? 

CLAIRE.  I  don't  know.  Sometimes  only  a  little  thing 
is  needed.  -  I'm  trying  to  find  out.  You  don't  think  I'm  too 
decolletee  ?  I  know  you  don't  like  that. 

FREYDIERES.  Why,  no — it  seems  to  me  you  are  decol- 
letee, just  like  the  rest  of  the  women. 


THE  OTHER  DANGER  237 

CLAIRE.  Just  like  the  rest  of  the  women !  Oh,  it's  dread- 
ful! 

FREYDIERES.     Dreadful,  why? 

CLAIRE.     If  you  don't  understand,  why  it's  still  worse. 

FREYDIERES.  You're  giving  my  words  a  meaning  that 
they  don't  have. 

CLAIRE.  You're  right.  I  beg  your  pardon.  Don't  mind 
it. — I'm  very  foolish,  I  know.  [She  goes  near  the  window,] 
Oh,  one  can  breathe  here.  How  mild  it  is !  It  was  just  such 
an  evening  five  years  ago  in  June  that  we  met  here. — Do 
you  remember? 

FREYDIERES.     Yes,  I  remember. 

CLAIRE.  We  were  sitting  out  there  on  the  seat  near  the 
magnolias.  Madame  Ernstein  and  De  Meillan  sang  and 
kissed,  each  in  turn;  my  husband  was  looking  at  some 
plans  with  Ernstein ;  you  persuaded  me,  moreover,  that  you 
hadn't  forgotten  me;  you  said  some  things  to  me  that  were 
extremely  sweet  and  your  words  intoxicated  me.  The  sky 
was  full  of  stars  and,  probably,  at  that  moment,  the  little 
star  which  presides  over  my  destiny,  must  have  shone 
with  a  brighter  light,  for  we  must  believe  that  all  that 
had  to  happen  and  that  a  love-affair  was  inevitable.  You 
don't  believe  it?  Then  why  did  Ernstein  meet  my 
husband  the  night  before?  Why  did  he  invite  us  that 
evening?  Why  were  you  there?  Why  were  w»  left 
alone  in  the  dark?  Why  did  we  come  to  Paris?  Why? 
Why? 

FREYDIERES.  Chance  may  aid  the  course  of  events,  but 
I  think  that  the  stars  have  nothing  to  do  about  it  and  that 
we  have  also  our  share  of  responsibility  in  what  happens 
to  us. 

CLAIRE.  Oh,  certainly — but,  what  does  it  matter?  One 
must  love  and  the  rest  is  nothing — one  must  love,  whether 
one  has  to  suffer  or  die  for  it,  like  those  plants  that  lift  a 


238  MAURICE  DONNAY 

large  brilliant  flower  very  high  towards  the  sky  and  then 
perish  from  their  generous  act  of  love. 

[During  these  last  words,  ERNSTEIN  has  entered  the 
room.] 

ERNSTEIN.  Ah,  you  there,  Freydieres? — I  was  looking 
everywhere  for  you. — The  ladies  are  calling  for  you;  my 
wife  would  like  to  speak  to  you. 

FREYDIERES.     I'll  go.     [He  goes  out.] 

ERNSTEIN.  You  don't  like  to  have  me  tear  Freydieres 
away  from  you,  do  you? 

CLAIRE.     Oh,  tear  away 

ERNSTEIN.  Besides,  these  ladies  were  not  calling  for 
him  at  all;  it's  only  a  pretext  to  have  you  all  to  my- 
self. 

CLAIRE.     Very  ingenious. 

ERNSTEIN.  You  know  you  have  had  a  great  success — 
I've  had  many  compliments  for  you. 

CLAIRE.     [A  little  astonished.]     You? 

ERNSTEIN.  Yes,  in  a  certain  fashion — indeed,  people  are 
much  interested  in  you. 

CLAIRE.     It's  very  good  of  them. 

ERNSTEIN.  You  have  a  wonderful  charm — that's  the 
truth.  And  then  you  have  a  certain  air  that  distinguishes 
you  from  all  the  others.  I  beg  your  pardon  for  telling  you 
all  this. 

CLAIRE.  There's  no  offense;  but  you  exaggerate; — there 
are  very  pretty  women  here, — very  fascinating  women. 

ERNSTEIN.  None  of  these  women  has  your  peculiar  at- 
traction. I  don't  know  what  it  is — or  rather  I  do  know  very 
well  what  it  is — those  women  don't  love.  While  with  you, 
every  one  knows  you  have  a  heart,  a  soul,  a  brain,  feelings — 
that  you  are  a  true  woman !  Everything  about  you  reveals 
love,  and  you  radiate  love  as  the  morning  sun  radiates 
light. 


THE  OTHER  DANGER  239 

CLAIRE.  You  express  yourself  very  well.  You  must  have 
some  favor  to  ask  of  me. 

ERNSTEIN.  The  only  thing  I  have  to  ask  of  you  is 
the  very  thing  you  would  refuse  me.  And  so  I  ask  nothing ; 
I  gave  it  up  a  long  time  ago;  I  love  you  with  perfect 
disinterestedness. 

CLAIRE.    What  is  your  aim  in  all  this  ? 

ERNSTEIN.  Nothing — absolutely  nothing — I  need  to  tell 
you  this,  that's  all.  But  it's  not  only  for  this  that  I  have 
corraled  you  in  this  way.  I  want  to  speak  to  you  about 
things  much  more  serious. — Tell  me — would  you  be  in- 
clined to  marry  Madeleine? 

CLAIRE.  Of  course;  but  I  don't  intend  to  yet. — She's 
only  eighteen;  I  should  like  to  keep  her  near  me  one  or 
two  years  longer.  But  I  mustn't  be  selfish ;  if  there  should 
be  a  chance  of  a  very  good  match 

ERNSTEIN.  An  idea  has  just  come  to  me,  and  you  know 
when  I  have  an  idea  I  don't  lose  any  time. 

CLAIRE.    Well? 

ERNSTEIN.  There  is  here  this  evening  a  very  intelligent 
young  man,  one  of  my  prospectors,  who  has  just  returned 
from  Indo-China.  His  name  is  Heybens,  Paul  Heybens ;  no 
parents,  no  fortune,  but,  especially  if  I  take  an  interest  in 
him,  a  fine  future.  He  has  one  thing  against  him,  how- 
ever. 

CLAIRE.    What  is  it? 

ERNSTEIN.  He  led  his  class  when  he  left  school.  But 
you  can't  expect  a  person  to  be  perfect  in  everything. — All 
the  same  he's  a  remarkable  fellow. 

CLAIRE.     How  old  is  he? 

ERNSTEIN.  Thirty.  He's  good-looking.  But  I'll  show 
him  to  you  directly  and  if,  from  what  you  see  of  him,  he 
pleases  you,  I'll  ask  you  to  dinner  with  him  next  week. 

CLAIRE.    But  you'll  say  nothing  to  him? 


240  MAURICE  DONNAY 

ERNSTEIN.    No. 

CLAIRE.  I'll  not  say  anything  to  Madeleine  either.  With 
her  ideas,  a  marriage  simply  from  a  mere  introduction 
would  be  enough  to  make  her  wish  not  to  hear  a  word  about 
it.  And  you,  on  your  side,  say  nothing  to  Monsieur  Hey- 
bens,  because  men,  in  such  circumstances,  have  a  way  of 
appearing  unconcerned  that  betrays  them.  My  daughter's 
alert,  and  would  not  be  deceived  by  it. 

ERNSTEIN.  Don't  fear,  he  shall  not  be  told.  If  this 
marriage  takes  place,  I'll  appoint  your  son-in-law  director 
of  the  Society  of  Annam  Mines,  with  his  headquarters  at 
Paris;  I'll  give  him  a  fine  position.  If  my  young  friend 
doesn't  please  Madeleine,  I'll  send  him  back  to  Indo- 
China,  where  he  will  still  be  of  great  service  to  me.  That's 
all  there  is  to  it.  What  do  you  think? 

CLAIRE.  It  seems  quite  possible.  Anyhow,  you  may  show 
me  your  An-namite. 

ERNSTEIN.     Come  with  me,  then. 

[At  this  moment,  MADELEINE  appears  at  the  back  on  the 
staircase  with  FREYDIERES,  comes  down,  and  goes  to  her 
mother.] 

MADELEINE.    Mamma,  do  we  stay  to  the  end  ? 

CLAIRE.  Just  as  you  like,  my  dear;  it  all  depends  on 
you.  How  warm  you  are !  You  should  rest  a  little. 

MADELEINE.  Yes,  I'm  going  to  chatter  a  little  here  with 
Freydieres. 

[CLAIRE  goes  oat  of  the  room  on  the  arm  of  ERNSTEIN. 

MADELEINE.  Are  you  willing  to  keep  me  company  and 
talk  with  me  a  little? 

FREYDIERES.     I'm  going.     I  must  go. 

MADELEINE.  How  polite  you  are !  Well,  I  command  you 
to  stay;  you  must  obey  me,  since  it  appears  that  I  am  the 
queen  of  the  ball. 

FREYDIERES.     That's  just  it:  you  have  something  better 


THE  OTHER  DANGER  241 

to  do  than  talk  with  me. — Somebody  will  come  to  look  for 
you  in  a  minute  for  a  dance. 

MADELEINE.  No,  no  one  will  come  to  look  for  me,  be- 
cause I  have  kept  this  waltz  for  you. 

FREYDIERES.    But  you  know  I  don't  dance. 

MADELEINE.  That's  all  right;  we're  going  to  sit  it 
out. 

FREYDIERES.     Only 

MADELEINE.  Oh,  no,  no !  Stay  with  me.  Sit  down  there, 
sit  down — stay  with  me,  or  I  shall  be  very  much  offended. 
I  shall  think  I  have  done  something  that  makes  you 
want  to  avoid  me.  First,  I  must  scold  you.  It's  been  ages 
since  we  have  seen  you.  You  are  cutting  us.  Why  haven't 
you  come  to  the  house  all  this  time? 

FREYDIERES.     I've  had  so  much  to  do. 

MADELEINE.  Oh!  [A  silence.]  Oh!  how  warm  I  am; 
I  can't  breathe.  [She  goes  near  the  window.]  It  must  be 
delightful  outside. — Do  you  know  what  you  would  do,  if 
you  were  nice? 

FREYDIERES.    No. 

MADELEINE.  You  would  offer  me  your  arm  and  we 
should  go  for  a  walk  in  the  garden. 

FREYDIERES.     You  wouldn't  think  of  it! 

MADELEINE.  I  was  just  thinking  of  it.  I  should  much 
rather  walk  with  you,  under  the  trees,  this  beautiful  night, 
while  all  those  people  fuss  about  here. — It  would  seem  just 
as  if  we  were  traveling. 

FREYDIERES.    You  might  take  cold — and  then 

MADELEINE.     And  then? 

FREYDIERES.     You  would  be  ill. 

MADELEINE.     One  follows  the  other. — You  refuse,  then? 

FREYDIERES.     Absolutely.    . 

MADELEINE.  Bah!  How  provoking  you  are!  It's  a 
shame !  [She  sits  down  near  him.]  What's  the  matter  with 


242  MAURICE  DONNAY 

you  this  evening?  You  don't  behave  as  usual.  Besides,  you 
don't  speak  to  me  any  more  as  a  friend,  a  comrade. 

FREYDIERES.  You  are  no  longer  the  little  girl  I  knew; 
you're  a  young  lady  now. 

MADELEINE.  So  much  the  worse — if  this  transformation 
is  going  to  put  a  stop  to  our  pleasant  intimacy  and  make 
you  formal.  Then  talk  to  me  as  to  a  young  lady;  tell  me 
if  I  have  a  pretty  gown, — if  you  like  it.  Everybody  has 
been  paying  me  compliments  this  evening;  you  are  the  only 
one  who  hasn't. 

FREYDIERES.  You  are  coming  out  this  evening  and  you're 
having  the  greatest  success.  You  don't  need  compliments 
from  me. 

MADELEINE.  You  don't  know  anything  about  it.  Com- 
pliments from  you  would  certainly  give  me  the  most  pleas- 
ure. Then  it  is  true — even  for  you  who  have  seen  me  in 
short  dresses — that  I  act  like  a  young  lady? 

FREYDIERES.  Quite. — You  act  like  a  young  lady,  as  you 
say; — so  much  so,  that  when  you  first  came  in  to-night,  I 
didn't  recognize  you. 

MADELEINE.  Oh !  I'm  glad.  I've  had  great  success.  Is 
it  true  that  I'm  so  pretty  as  all  that? 

FREYDIERES.    "  As  all  that," — I  don't  know. 

MADELEINE.    You  don't  know? 

FREYDIERES.  You  wish  me,  willy-nilly,  to  compliment 
you? 

MADELEINE.     Yes,  willy-nilly. 

FREYDIERES.  Well,  you  are  more  than  pretty.  You  shed 
so  much  brightness  around  you,  that  in  spite  of  oneself,  one 
looks  to  find  what  it  is  that  floods  you  with  light — you 
know,  like  the  little  princess  of  the  fairy  tale;  but  this 
brightness  really  comes  from  your  youth  and  a  beauty 
so  pure,  that  one  must  look  out  not  to  cast  on  it  the  shadow 
of  cheap  praise. 


THE  OTHER  DANGER  243 

MADELEINE.  Well,  you've  given  me  more  than  I  asked 
for  and  I'm  happy  to  have  you  speak  to  me  in  this  way; — 
it  makes  me  very  proud  and  I  need  this  pride,  for  just 
now  I  had  the  humiliation  of  being  less  delicately  appre- 
ciated. My  partner 

FREYDIERES.     Prabert? 

MADELEINE.  Yes,  he  paid  me  compliments  that  were 
rather  too  bold  and,  as  I  didn't  say  anything,  naturally 
the  fool  took  my  silence  for  encouragement.  He  held  me 
tighter  in  his  arms ;  he  persisted  in  looking  into  my  corsage ; 
and  he  lifted  me  so  that  my  feet  scarcely  touched  the  floor; 
and  I  had  to  pretend  that  I  was  dizzy,  and  I  begged  him 
to  take  me  to  my  seat. 

FREYDIERES.  [Getting  up,  much  irritated.]  What  a 
blackguard ! 

MADELEINE.    What? 

FREYDIERES.  Nothing — nothing — there's  nothing  you  can 
do  about  it  so  long  as  you  dance!  I  have  known  you  for 
five  years,  and  I  am  your  friend;  but  if  I  merely  took 
your  hand  differently  from  the  way  I  should  in  saying  good- 
morning  or  good-evening,  it  would  seem  strange,  awful ;  but 
this  evening  the  first-comer  has  the  right  to  put  his  arm 
around  you  and  to  hold  you  tight.  You  were  offended  be- 
cause he  looked  into  your  corsage, — but  it  is  his  right;  it 
is  his  duty, — he  is  your  partner  in  the  dance, — it  is  dread- 
ful !  What  familiarity,  what  privileges  such  a  title  permits ! 
But,  then,  those  who  don't  wish  people  to  see  what  passes 
in  their  house,  don't  throw  their  windows  wide  open. 

MADELEINE.  What  windows? — Oh,  yes — you  think  I  am 
too  decolletee  ? 

FREYDIERES.     I — Oh!  the  idea!     Are  you  crying? 

MADELEINE.  Yes — no — I  don't  know.  Really  I  believe 
it's  for  joy. 

FREYDIERES.     [To  make  up.]     You  are  not  taking  seri- 


244  MAURICE  DONNAY 

ously  what  I  just  said.  I  was  joking.  Besides,  it  doesn't 
concern  me — it's  nothing  to  me;  I'm  not  qualified. — Since 
your  mother  dresses  you  so,  it  is  all  right. — She  knows  bet- 
ter than  I  what  is  proper — or  rather  what  suits  the  occa- 
sion. [While  he  says  the  above,  MADELEINE  has  put  a 
chiffon  scarf  over  her  shoulders.]  But  it's  not  because  of 
what  I've  just  said  that  you  put  this  over  your  shoulders? 

MADELEINE.    Not  at  all;  it's  because  I'm  a  little  cold. 

FREYDIERES.    Just  now,  you  were  too  warm. 

MADELEINE.     But  now  I'm  cold,  truly ! 

FREYDIERES.    Madeleine,  you're  not  angry  with  me  ? 

MADELEINE.  Oh,  no,  my  good  friend,  I'm  not  angry  with 
you;  on  the  contrary,  I'm  very  grateful  to  you;  you  have 
never  spoken  to  me  this  way  before.  And  it  seems,  for 
the  first  time,  that  you  have  spoken  to  me  as  a  woman.  Al- 
ways tell  me  what  displeases  you  in  me,  so  that  I  may 
correct  it. 

FREYDIERES.  But  nothing  can  displease  me  in  you,  Made- 
leine, and  once  more,  I  have  no  right 

MADELEINE.  I  give  it  to  you,  alone;  I  assure  you  it  will 
give  me  pleasure, — you  can't  know  how  much.  Give  me  al- 
ways this  proof — of  affection,  will  you?  Besides,  I  sha'n't 
dance  any  more.  You're  right;  dancing  is  stupid. 

FREYDIERES.  Don't  do  that. — I  exaggerated;  I've  gone 
a  little  too  far.  Dancing  is  an  elegant  and  even  healthy 
exercise,  if  one  doesn't  carry  it  to  excess,  and  a  good  dancer 
is  not  necessarily  the  despicable  fellow  I  represented  him 
to  be  just  now. — Fortunately  Prabert  is  an  exception;  for 
one  can  be  a  good  dancer  and  an  honorable  man.  There 
are  certain  qualities  required  that  I  don't  possess. — I've 
never  been  able  to  dance;  I'm  light-headed;  in  my  case 
there  was  even  a  sort  of  secret  pique. 

MADELEINE.  Oh,  yes,  now  you  are  joking  and  I  have  no 
longer  any  desire  whatever  to  dance. 


THE  OTHER  DANGER  245 

FREYDIERES.  For  pity's  sake,  dance!  Or  else  you  will 
be  rude  to  the  young  men  to  whom  you've  promised  dances. 
It  would  be  a  great  offense  against  good  form,  against 
the  world. — There  is  nothing  more  exacting  than  the  law 
of  pleasure. 

[During  these  last  words,  a  young  man  has  come  up  to 
MADELEINE.] 

YOUNG  MAN.  Mademoiselle,  I  believe  I  have  the  honor 
of  this  waltz? 

MADELEINE.     Yes,  Monsieur. 

[She  looks  questioningly  at  FREYDIERES,  who  nods  his 
approval,  and  she  goes  away  on  the  arm  of  the  young  man. 
FREYDIERES  follows  her  with  his  eyes;  he  is  unaware  that 
for  some  minutes  CLAIRE,  all  the  while  talking  with  ERN- 
STEIN,  has  been  watching  him  and  that  now  she  is  behind 
him.] 

CLAIRE.  What  a  dreamer  you  have  become  all  of  a 
sudden ! 

FREYDIERES.      [Turning,   surprised.]      Were  you  there? 

CLAIRE.  What  were  you  saying  to  Madeleine  that  was 
so  interesting?  You  were  so  much  absorbed  that  you  didn't 
notice  I  was  there  for  five  minutes  with  Ernstein;  you  spoke 
with  such  animation 

FREYDIERES.  Your  daughter  didn't  wish  to  dance  any 
more  and  I  told  her  that,  at  least,  she  must  keep  the  engage- 
ments she  had  made. 

CLAIRE.  I  should  have  given  her  the  same  advice.  [A 
silence.]  I  have  just  had  a  conversation  with  Ernstein 
about  a  most  important  matter.  He  has  a  match  planned 
for  my  daughter. 

FREYDIERES.     Ah ! 

CLAIRE.  A  young  man  who  has  just  come  back  from 
Indo-China — a  fellow  with  a  fine  future,  it  seems — his  name 
is  Heybens.  Do  you  know  him? 


246  MAURICE  DONNAY 

FREYDIERES.  It  seems  I  know  the  name.  Did  he  intro- 
duce him  to  you? 

CLAIRE.  No,  he  pointed  him  out.  He  seems  a  nice 
fellow — very  nice,  indeed.  Ernstein  is  going  to  have  us  to 
dinner  with  him  next  week.  But  there's  nothing  definite  yet. 
The  chief  thing  is  to  please  Madeleine.  Do  you  know, 
this  conversation  with  Ernstein  has  been  a  sudden  awaken- 
ing for  me. 

FREYDIERES.    Awakening? 

CLAIRE.  Yes.  Of  course,  I  knew  I  had  a  daughter  who 
would  marry  some  time  and  that  one  day  or  other  we  must 
be  separated.  I  have  often  thought  of  Madeleine's  marry- 
ing, but  it  appeared  so  indefinite,  so  far  away.  Now,  sud- 
denly, here  is  the  question  before  me.  Do  you  under- 
stand ? 

FREYDIERES.    Yes,  I  understand. 

CLAIRE.  I  am  shown  a  gentleman  as  a  prospective  son- 
in-law.  I  have  a  daughter  to  marry.  Only  a  moment  ago 
it  became  a  definite,  imminent  fact.  Then  suddenly  I  under- 
stood with  a  singular  but  tardy  distinctness  what  a  very  im- 
prudent woman  I  have  been. 

FREYDIERES.     In  what  way? 

CLAIRE.  Yes,  I  must  expect  that  several  suitors  will 
present  themselves  for  Madeleine  this  evening;  she  is  mak- 
ing such  a  hit.  I  say  it  without  false  modesty,  but  she  is 
dazzling.  If  it  is  not  Monsieur  Heybens,  it  will  be  an- 
other. The  parents  interested  will  look  up  the  family  into 
which  the  son  wishes  to  enter  and  if  they  should  learn 
my  relations  with  you — only  think !  It's  dreadful !  For  it 
would  do  the  greatest  harm  to  my  daughter's  prospects. 

FREYDIERES.  You  appear  upset!  One  would  think  that 
this  idea  of  the  possibility  of  our  liaison  being  known 
had  suddenly  dawned  upon  you. 

CLAIRE.     No,  but  it  has  never  appeared  so  menacing  as 


THE  OTHER  DANGER  247 

these  last  minutes — so  much  so  that  I  imagine  it  is  the 
subject  of  every  conversation  this  evening 

FREYDIERES.    Why  do  you  think  so? 

CLAIRE.  Of  course,  there's  no  use  discussing  it;  it  can't 
be  explained.  It's  an  impression,  a  presentiment — you  know 
what  we  women  are. 

FREYDIERES.  You  could  never  keep  people  from  talking, 
seeing  it's  known  everywhere  that  I  am  constantly  received 
at  your  house  in  the  greatest  intimacy. 

CLAIRE.  That's  just  it!  I  have  thought — it  would  per- 
haps be  better  for  you  to  come  to  the  house  less  fre- 
quently— that  you  should,  little  by  little,  make  your  calls 
farther  apart — even  not  come  at  all — so  that  people  might 
think  there  was 

FREYDIERES.    A  coolness? 

CLAIRE.  Yes.  I  didn't  dare  say  that  word.  Of  course, 
the  coolness  will  be  only  pretended,  for  I  shall  continue  to 
see  you  in  a  different  way. — I  shall  see  you  always. 

FREYDIERES.  Of  course ;  but  don't  be  so  much  distressed 
about  the  matter.  I'll  do  what  you  wish — as  always,  I 
shall  obey  you. 

CLAIRE.  I  expressed  myself  badly;  I  beg  your  pardon. — 
I  don't  know  how  to  say  it. 

FREYDIERES.    That's  all  right;  I  understand  you. 

CLAIRE.  We'll  speak  about  it  to-morrow.  But  let  us 
not  stay  here  away  from  the  rest.  Let  us  separate;  that 
will  be  better. 

FREYDIERES.     I'll   say  good-by,  then;   I'm  going. 

CLAIRE.  Good-by.  I  wish  this  evening  were  over !  To- 
morrow ? 

FREYDIERES.     Yes.     [He  goes  out.] 

[PRABERT  comes  in  by  the  door  in  the  right,  followed  by 
two  servants,  pushing  a  sort  of  cart,  upon  which  are  arranged 
the  favors  for  the  cotillon.] 


248  MAURICE  DONNAY 

PRABERT.  [To  the  servants.]  Wait — put  this  there  and 
then  go  for  the  baskets.  Put  them  on  the  sofa  and 
chairs. 

[The  servants  follow  the  orders  of  PRABERT.  MME.  ERN- 
STEIN  comes  down  the  stairs  with  MLLE.  CHOSCONESCO.] 

MME.  ERNSTEIN.  [Seeing  PRABERT.]  Ah,  Mademoiselle 
Chosconesco,  here's  your  partner.  [To  PRABERT.]  You  are 
getting  everything  ready?  You  have  all  you  need? 

PRABERT.     Yes,  yes,  thank  you. 

MME.  ERNSTEIN.      How  soon  will  you  be  ready  ? 

PRABERT.  Oh,  in  ten  minutes;  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
we  could  begin.  [To  MLLE.  CHOSCONESCO.]  You  see, 
Mademoiselle,  all  the  favors  are  there.  We  shall  be  near 
the  door  and  they  will  be  passed  to  us  in  order. 

MLLE.  CHOSCONESCO.    What  do  we  begin  with? 

PRABERT.    With  the  flower  arches.    You  have  your  list? 

MLLE.  CHOSCONESCO.    Yes,  yes. 

PRABERT.  If  you  please,  we'll  look  it  through  together. 
[Meanwhile  MME.  LACORTE  has  entered,  followed  by  HEY- 
BENS.] 

MME.  LACORTE.  [Passing  by  PRABERT.]  How  hand- 
some you  are,  Prabert!  You're  going  to  lead  the  cotillon? 

PRABERT.    Yes ;  it's  not  much  fun  for  me,  I  assure  you. 

MME.  LACORTE.  Nor  for  me,  I  wager.  [Followed  by 
HEYBENS,  she  sits  down.] 

HEYBENS.  [Much  excited.]  Yes,  it's  easy  to  under- 
stand; put  yourself  in  my  place.  I've  been  deprived  for 
so  long !  Then  this  ball,  this  music,  these  lights,  these  flow- 
ers, these  shoulders ;  they  intoxicate  me,  intoxicate  me ;  and 
from  having  talked  only  an  hour  with  you  who  are  so 
pretty,  so  witty,  and  who  must  be  so  good. 

MME.  LACORTE.     Especially  good ! 

HEYBENS.  I  love  you;  there  is  no  other  word  for  it.  I 
love  you  with  all  that  the  word  implies. 


THE  OTHER  DANGER  249 

MME.  LACORTE.  My  compliments!  You  don't  lose  any 
time;  you  don't  take  a  round-about  way. 

HEYBENS.     It's  never  round-about. 

MME.  LACORTE.  You  are  in  a  hurry — it  might  be  called 
the  return  of  the  prospector.  There  are  no  women  over 
there,  then? 

HEYBENS.    There  are  the  congdies. 

MME.  LACORTE.    What  kind  of  animals  are  those? 

HEYBENS.  That's  just  what  they  are — animals;  little, 
passive,  uninteresting  things — and  they  are  yellow,  too. 

MME.  LACORTE.  Oh,  I  understand;  I  give  you  the  effect 
of  white  bread  after  the  siege. 

HEYBENS.  Of  very  white  bread,  if  one  can  judge  by 
what  is  seen. 

MME.  LACORTE.  What  a  pretty  compliment  from  a 
colonial ! 

HEYBENS.  It's  your  fault;  your  gown — you  are  a  trifle 
exposed. 

MME.  LACORTE.    You  exaggerate. 

HEYBENS  [Looking  into  her  corsage.]  You  must  admit 
that  between  this,  and  a  high-necked  gown,  there  is  a  great 
gap. 

MME.  LACORTE.     So  long  as  it  is  filled  up. 

HEYBENS.  You  fill  it,  and  you  fill  us — with  grati- 
tude! 

MME.  LACORTE.  What  you  must  have  suffered!  But 
I  always  thought  that  in  those  countries  you  come  from, 
love  was  a  highly  perfected  art. 

HEYBENS.     Where  have  you  learned  that? 

MME.  LACORTE.     In  the  Kama-Soutra. 

HEYBENS.  Oh,  first  the  Kama-Soutra  is  very  old  and 
then  it  is  in  the  Indies  that  they  practice  love  that  way. 
But  I'm  speaking  of  Annam  and  I  assure  you  the  congdies 
are  no  artists. 


250  MAURICE  DONNAY 

MME.  LACORTE.  I  want  to  ask  you  if  it  is  true  that  in 
that  country — oh,  no,  I  don't  dare. 

HEYBENS.     Why,  yes,  dare. 

MME.  LACORTE.    Well — oh,  no,  I  can't. 

HEYBENS.     Is  it,  then,  so  terrible? 

MME.  LACORTE.  Come  nearer  then — I  will  whisper  it  in 
your  ear.  [She  whispers  to  him  behind  her  fan.  Mean- 
while MADELEINE  with  the  young  man  who  is  her  partner, 
comes  into  the  room,  and  goes  to  her  mother.] 

MADELEINE.  Oh,  Mamma,  I  was  looking  for  you.  Has 
Freydieres  gone? 

CLAIRE.     Yes. 

MADELEINE.  This  gentleman  has  invited  me  for  the 
cotillon,  and  I  have  never  danced  the  cotillon — so  I  shall 
be  very  awkward. 

THE  YOUNG  MAN.  You  will  get  through  it  all  right. 
First  you  must  learn  the  favors. 

MADELEINE.  Of  course.  Let's  go  look  at  them.  [Both 
examine  the  favors.  Meanwhile  MME.  LACORTE  has  stopped 
whispering  to  HEYBENS.] 

MME.  LACORTE.    Oh,  you  are  disgusting ! 

HEYBENS.    You  asked  me. 

MME.  LACORTE.  How  horrible !  I  had  been  told  it 
was  so,  but  I  would  never  believe  it.  Are  you  telling  me  the 
truth? 

HEYBENS.     The  simple  truth. 

MME.  LACORTE.     You  call  that  simple? 

MADELEINE.  [To  THE  YOUNG  MAN.]  Oh,  I've  forgot- 
ten my  fan — I  must  have  left  it  on  the  mantel-piece  in  the 
drawing-room. 

THE  YOUNG  MAN.  I'll  bring  it  to  you  in  a  minute. 
[MADELEINE,  left  alone,  continues  to  look  at  the  cotillon 
favors.  She  is  only  two  steps  from  MME.  LACORTE  and 
HEYBENS.] 


THE  OTHER  DANGER  251 

HEYBENS.  [To  MME.  LACORTE  as  he  looks  at  CLAIRE, 
who  is  talking  with  MME.  ERNSTEIN.]  What  a  lucky  dog 
Freydieres  is ! 

MME.  LACORTE.  [Who  feels  that  MADELEINE  is  just 
behind  her.]  Why  do  you  say  that? 

HEYBENS.  Because  I'm  looking  at  the  person  who  is  talk- 
ing to  Madame  Ernstein. 

MME.  LACORTE.  What  has  that  to  do  with  the  ques- 
tion? 

HEYBENS.  What  has  it  to  do?  Didn't  you  tell  me  just 
now  that  she  is  his  mistress?  [MADELEINE,  who  has  heard 
him,  sinks  upon  a  chair.] 

MME.  LACORTE.  [With  a  scowl  at  him.]  I  never  said  that. 
[She  gets  up  and  drags  HEYBENS  away,  as  he  insists.] 

HEYBENS.  Oh,  indeed,  that's  too  much;  you  never  said 
that  this  Madame  Jadain 

MME.  LACORTE.     [Taking  his  arm.]     Oh,  hush! 

[At  this  moment,  THE  YOUNG  MAN  returns  to  MADE- 
LEINE. 

THE  YOUNG  MAN.  Here's  your  fan.  [Seeing  that  MADE- 
LEINE has  fainted,  he  calls.]  Prabert!  Prabert!  Come 
here! 

PRABERT.  Go  tell  her  mother. — She's  over  there.  [THE 
YOUNG  MAN  goes  to  tell  CLAIRE,  who  runs  up  to  MADE- 
LEINE. People  crowd  around  her.] 

HEYBENS.    What's  the  matter  with  that  girl? 

MME.  LACORTE.  It's  Mademoiselle  Jadain — it's  her 
daughter — her  daughter !  She  heard  everything. 

HEYBENS.     Oh,  you  think  so? 

MME.  LACORTE.  I'm  sure  of  it.  Oh,  you're  not  very 
clever.  One  sees  very  well  you  have  just  come  back  from 
an  uncivilized  country. 

CLAIRE.  [To  MADELEINE.]  What  is  the  matter  with 
you?  Are  you  ill? 


252  MAURICE  DONNAY 

MADELEINE.  Yes;  let  us  go  away;  I  can't  stay  here.  I 
don't  know  what's  the  matter;  I  feel  very  ill. 

MME.  ERNSTEIN.    Won't  you  take  something,  Madeleine  ? 

MADELEINE.  No,  no;  let  us  go  away;  there  is  nothing 
to  do. 

CLAIRE.  But  wait,  my  child;  perhaps  you  will  be 
better. 

MADELEINE.     No,  I  sha'n't  be  better  here. 

CLAIRE.  But  what  is  the  matter  with  the  child?  Dear 
me,  she  is  so  nervous,  she  frightens  me.  Good-by,  Madame 
Ernstein ;  will  you  excuse  us  ? 

ERNSTEIN.  [Coming  up.]  What's  the  matter?  You're 
not  staying  for  the  cotillon?  They're  just  going  to  begin. 

CLAIRE.  No,  Madeleine  is  ill.  Will  you  be  kind  enough 
to  tell  my  husband?  [CLAIRE  and  MADELEINE  go  out, 
accompanied  by  MME.  ERNSTEIN.  PRABERT,  MLLE.  CHOSCO- 
NESCO,  and  THE  YOUNG  MAN  talk  together  about  the  in- 
cident.] 

HEYBENS.     I'm  awfully  sorry. 

MME.  LACORTE.  I  felt  it  coming — but  I  scowled  at  you 
in  vain — you  kept  on  and  on.  When  I  touched  your  foot, 
didn't  you  understand? 

HEYBENS.     I  didn't  think  it  was  for  that. 

MME.  LACORTE.  What  a  break !  It  makes  me  thirsty. 
Come,  let's  get  something  to  drink.  [The  curtain  falls.] 

ACT  IV 

[Two  weeks  later  in  the  little  drawing-room  of  the  JADAINS. 
When  the  curtain  rises,  CLAIRE,  who  is  alone,  is  turn- 
ing over  the  leaves  of  a  book.  Her  sister  enters.] 

MME.  CHENEVAS.    How  is  Madeleine  this  morning? 
CLAIRE.     Always  the  same.     She  didn't  sleep  last  night. 


THE  OTHER  DANGER  253 

Then  about  eight  o'clock,  I  made  her  take  the  medicine  the 
doctor  ordered  and  finally  she  has  dozed  off. 

MME.  CHENEVAS.  I  thought  the  doctor  ordered  you,  in 
the  weak  state  in  which  Madeleine  is,  not  to  give  the  medi- 
cine unless  it  was  absolutely  necessary. 

CLAIRE.  [With  a  gesture  of  discouragement.]  Oh,  I 
know  it;  but  she  hasn't  slept  for  so  many  nights!  She 
doesn't  eat ;  she  doesn't  sleep ;  that  can't  last  very  long.  Oh, 
I'm  beside  myself,  beside  myself. 

MME.  CHENEVAS.    Don't,  Claire. 

CLAIRE.  If  one  could  only  know  what's  the  matter  with 
her ;  but  here  it's  two  weeks  that  she  has  been  in  this  state. 

MME.  CHENEVAS.  Yes,  since  the  ball  at  the  Ernsteins' — 
that  makes  two  weeks. 

CLAIRE.  It's  dreadful  to  see  your  child  ill  and  not  be 
able  to  help  her.  The  doctor  himself  is  powerless;  he  has 
examined  her,  sounded  her  lungs,  auscultated  her.  He 
doesn't  find  anything  wrong.  Besides  she  doesn't  complain 
of  anything.  She  says  she  doesn't  suffer,  and  yet  she  is 
wasting  away. 

MME.  CHENEVAS.    He  says  she  has  neurasthenia. 

CLAIRE.  That's  their  great  word  when  their  knowledge 
fails  them;  but  one  doesn't  become  neurasthenic  in  a  min- 
ute; there  must  be  symptoms — the  disease  must  progress. 
She  became  sad  suddenly — and  silent,  she,  who  was  the 
delight  of  this  house  and  radiated  the  joy  of  living.  The 
night  before,  even,  she  ate,  she  slept,  she  sang,  she 
laughed ! 

MME.  CHENEVAS.  She  dreamed  also — she  has  some  secret 
grief;  perhaps  a  sick  heart  for  which  we  must  seek  the 
cause. 

CLAIRE.  [With  a  little  impatience.]  When  will  you 
stop  saying  that?  But  think  how  I  have  several  times 
asked  Madeleine,  and  how  anxious  I've  been!  It's  of  no 


254  MAURICE  DONNAY 

use;  she  says  nothing;  she  has  seen  how  distressed  I  am, 
has  seen  me  weeping.  Once,  only  once,  I  thought  she  was 
going  to  speak;  but,  suddenly  she  checked  herself  and 
I  detected  behind  that  pale  brow,  a  will,  a  determina- 
tion to  say  nothing.  What  can  there  be  behind  that — behind 
that?  [She  strikes  her  forehead.]  She  says  nothing  more 
to  you? 

MME.  CHENEVAS.    No. 

CLAIRE.  But  she  has  the  greatest  confidence  in  you;  you 
are  her  friend. 

MME.  CHENEVAS.     So  are  you. 

CLAIRE.  Yes,  but  I  don't  know  any  more  what  to  do. 
Just  now  I  was  reading  this  medical  book;  I  thought  I 
should  be  more  clear-sighted  than  the  doctors.  Oh,  dear 
me! 

MME.  CHENEVAS.    It's — her  heart  you  must  read. 

CLAIRE.     Yes, — her  heart,  but  how? 

MME.  CHENEVAS.     Listen.     I  have  an  idea. 

CLAIRE.    What? 

MME.  CHENEVAS.     Her  diary. 

CLAIRE.    Do  you  think ? 

MME.  CHENEVAS.  Yes — that  blank  book  her  father  gave 
her, — where  she  writes  her  thoughts,  her  impressions. 

CLAIRE.    Oh,  we  shall  find  nothing  there. 

MME.  CHENEVAS.  Who  knows?  Perhaps  we  shall  get  a 
hint. 

CLAIRE.  For  two  weeks,  she  has  written  nothing  in  it. 
Do  you  know  where  the  diary  is? 

MME.  CHENEVAS.  Yes,  it's  in  her  room — in  one  of  her 
bureau  drawers. 

CLAIRE.  Well,  go  look  for  it  while  she  is  asleep.  [MME. 
CHENEVAS  goes  out;  CLAIRE  remains  alone  some  seconds; 
then  ETIENNE  comes  in  from  his  study.  He  carries  his  hat, 
ready  to  go  out.] 


THE  OTHER  DANGER  255 

ETIENNE.     Has  she  finally  gone  to  sleep? 

CLAIRE.     Yes. 

ETIENNE.  Let's  hope  it  will  do  her  good.  Poor  child, 
it's  distressing;  I  don't  know  any  more  how  to  exist;  I  have 
no  taste  for  anything.  In  the  midst  of  all  this,  I  must  go 
on  with  my  business.  Well,  I'm  obliged  to  do  some  errands 
before  lunch.  I'll  be  back  at  twelve,  half-past  twelve. 
By  the  way,  I  received  a  letter  from  Freydieres  this  morn- 
ing. He's  going  to  come  pretty  soon  to  say  good-by  to  us. 

CLAIRE.     Good-by?     He's  going  away? 

ETIENNE.     It  looks  like  it. 

CLAIRE.     Where  is  he  going? 

ETIENNE.  To  Tunis  for  that  case  he's  told  us 
about.  He'll  explain  it  to  you.  At  all  events,  keep  him 
till  I  come  in,  for  I  would  like  to  say  good-by  to  him.  Try 
to  have  him  stay  to  lunch. 

CLAIRE.    Very  well. 

ETIENNE.    Well,  good-by.     [He  goes  out.] 

CLAIRE.     [Left  alone-]     He's  going  away! 

[MME.  CHENEVAS  enters. 

CLAIRE.    You  have  it? 

MME.  CHENEVAS.     Yes. 

CLAIRE.     She  didn't  wake  up? 

MME.  CHENEVAS.    No;  I  went  so  quietly. 

CLAIRE.  She  doesn't  suspect  us,  and  we  are  abusing  her 
confidence. 

MME.  CHENEVAS.  Since  she  won't  speak — you  are  her 
mother — you  have  a  perfect  right;  in  such  a  case  all 
means  are  justifiable. 

CLAIRE.  You  are  right.  But  this  book  locks;  we  haven't 

the  key.  I'm  afraid  to  open  it.  Well, [She 

takes  from  a  table  near  her  a  little  metal  paper  knife  and 
breaks  open  the  clasp.  She  reads:]  "  January  1st — I  be- 


256  MAURICE  DONNAY 

gin  my  diary  to-day.  I  need  to  have  a  confidant  and  to 
put  down  the  thoughts  which,  for  some  time,  have  deluded 
and  oppressed  me.  I  have  a  sort  of  feverish  hope. 

"  January  4th. — He  comes  back  to-day.  This  whole  week 
without  seeing  him  has  seemed  endless.  It's  cold;  it  is 
raining;  and  yet  I  am  so  full  of  joy  that  I  could  shout.  I 
understand  those  who  have  faith  and  who,  in  certain  coun- 
tries, on  Easter  day,  kiss  each  other  in  the  streets,  saying, 
'  Christ  is  risen ! ' 

"  Thursday  evening. — He  has  been  here.  Alas !  My 
poor  joy  is  now  turned  to  sadness.  I  am  discouraged.  He 
always  speaks  to  me  as  if  I  were  a  child.  He  does  not 
perceive  anything." 

MME.  CHENEVAS.    It's  Freydieres. 

CLAIRE.     It  can't  be  any  one  else. 

MME.     CHENEVAS.    What  is  the  matter  with  you? 

CLAIRE.  Nothing,  nothing!  [She  continues  to  read.] 
Yes,  that's  it;  she  loves  him;  she  loves  him.  That's  all;  it's 
not  necessary  to  go  on — we  know  what  to  think. 

MME.  CHENEVAS.    A  young  girl's  love  is  not  very  serious. 

CLAIRE.    Her  feelings  are  never  superficial. 

MME.  CHENEVAS.  She  loves  him,  but  that  is  no  reason 
why  she  should  be  so  sick  as  she  is.  There  must  be  some- 
thing else.  Does  he  love  her,  that's  the  question? 

CLAIRE.    Yes — but  leave  me,  please,  will  you? 

MME.  CHENEVAS.    Yes. 

[She  goes  out;  CLAIRE  sits  still  several  seconds,  leaning 
on  her  elbow  in  thought.  She  does  not  hear  MADELEINE 
open  the  door  very  carefully.  Her  daughter  stands  in  a 
white  tea  gown,  behind  her,  very  pale.] 

MADELEINE.  [Very  much  annoyed.]  Ah,  it's  you  who 
have  my  diary?  Why  did  you  take  it?  Why  did  you  do 
that?  You  had  no  right;  it's  mine;  it's  not  yours — it's 
wicked — what  you  have  done. 


THE  OTHER  DANGER  257 

CLAIRE.  Madeleine,  Madeleine,  you  forget  you  are  speak- 
ing to  your  mother. 

MADELEINE.  I  am  speaking  to  the  one  who  has  intruded 
upon  my  most  intimate  thoughts,  who  has  profaned  my  soul. 

CLAIRE.    Be  silent,  be  silent ! 

MADELEINE.  Yes.  [She  takes  the  book  and  throws  it 
to  the  other  end  of  the  room.]  Oh,  I  have  no  use  for  it 
any  more;  I.  don't  care  for  it  any  longer; — you  may  keep 
it.  Everybody  may  read  it  now — it's  all  the  same  to  me. 

CLAIRE.  [Very  gently,  going  to  pick  up  the  book.]  You 
are  wrong,  Madeleine,  to  be  angry.  I  had  a  right  to  do 
what  I  did. 

MADELEINE.  Then  why  did  you  do  it  secretly?  Why 
did  you  take  advantage  of  my  sleep  to  slip  into  my  room 
and  rummage  in  my  desk  and  bureau  ?  You  hoped  you  could 
put  the  book  back  in  iij  place  before  I  should  wake  up 
and  that  I  should  not  notice  it;  and  your  curiosity  has 
been  satisfied.  Unfortunately,  you  miscalculated;  I  waked 
up  in  time.  Besides,  I  dreamed  that  some  one  entered  my 
room,  and  in  my  sleep,  I  saw — yes,  I  saw  somebody  take 
this  book  from  me. 

CLAIRE.  Ah,  my  poor  child,  I  did  not  make  any  such 
calculations,  and  it  is  not  my  curiosity  that  I  wanted  to 
satisfy,  but  my  anxiety  that  I  wanted  to  relieve.  For 
two  weeks,  think,  I  have  seen  you  suffering — I  don't  know 
from  what;  you  have  been  extreme^  sad  and  stubbornly 
silent.  You  have  withdrawn  within  yourself;  it  seems 
that  you  have  lost  all  confidence  in  me  and  that  a  great 
gulf  has  opened  between  us. 

MADELEINE.  If  I  kept  silent,  it  is  evident  that  I  wished 
to  keep  my  secret,  and  if  I  had  wished  also  to  die  with  this 
secret,  it  concerned  only  myself.  My  inner  life  belongs 
to  me,  I  suppose;  and  I  intend  to  have  it  respected.  I  told 
you  nothing  and  I  have  nothing  to  tell.  I  am  no  longer 


258  MAURICE  DONNAY 

a  child,  and  there  comes  an  age  when  girls  no  longer  show 
themselves  all  naked  even  to  their  mothers. 

CLAIRE.  Oh,  how  you  misunderstand  my  affection !  But 
your  anger  does  not  provoke  me  nor  do  your  cruel  words 
wound  me.  It's  not  my  dear  Madeleine  who  speaks  now; 
it  is  not  the  child  I  have  rocked  and  nourished  and 
brought  up  with  so  much  love,  but  a  sad  and  feverish 
person;  and  if  I  wished  so  much  to  know  your  secret, 
it  was  only  to  try  to  assuage  this  grief  and  to  cure 
this  fever.  So  I  used  the  only  means  within  my  power, 
since  you  said  nothing.  This  means  seems  to  you  despotic 
and  disloyal — and  I  grant  it.  Well,  I  beg  your  pardon — 
I  beg  your  pardon,  Madeleine. 

MADELEINE.  [With  a  movement  towards  her  mother.] 
Oh,  Mamma! 

CLAIRE.  And  then  what  have  I  discovered  that's  so  ter- 
rible? You're  in  love.  Why  keep  it  a  secret?  It's  not  a 
crime  to  love,  nor  a  disgrace;  one  is  not  mistress  of  one's 
heart. 

MADELEINE.  It's  not  that;  you  are  mistaken — it's  not 
that.  Then  I  don't  love  him  any  longer;  I  can't  love  him 
any  longer.  It's  over  with;  it's  over  with  forever. 

[She   throws   herself  upon  the  sofa  and  breaks  into 
sobs. 

CLAIRE.  [Going  to  her.]  Why,  Madeleine,  my  dear, 
what  is  the  matter? 

MADELEINE.  Oh,  mother,  I  am  so  unhappy!  You  can't 
imagine  what  I  suffer.  I  beg  your  pardon — it's  not  my 
fault — I  didn't  want  to  cry.  I  didn't  want  to  say  any- 
thing— but  my  life  is  ruined. 

CLAIRE.     At  your  age,  how  can  you  say  that? 

MADELEINE.  Yes,  ruined;  I  know  very  well  what  I'm 
saying.  Oh,  I  feel  so  badly,  so  badly!  It  seems  to  me 
that  some  one  crushes  my  bursting  heart  into  my  breast 


THE  OTHER  DANGER  259 

and  then  pounds  on  it  so  as  to  make  it  a  poor  little  thing — 
a  poor  little  thing  all  broken. 

CLAIRE.    But  I  can't  let  you 

MADELEINE.    You  can  do  nothing. 

CLAIRE.  Yes,  I  can  hear  you ;  I  can  listen  to  you.  Now, 
come  very  near  me,  on  my  knees,  as  you  did  when  you  were 
little. 

[She  takes  her  on  her  knees. 

MADELEINE.     I  can't  say  anything — especially  to  you. 

CLAIRE.     Why,  to  me? 

MADELEINE.  Because  you  are  my  mother,  whom  I  wor- 
ship. 

CLAIRE.  [Speaking  with  precaution  and  groping,  so  to 
speak,  like  a  person  who  is  walking  without  a  light  in  a 
dark  and  unfamiliar  room.]  Forget,  then,  that  I  am  your 
mother — think  that  we  are  two  women  and  that  women  are 
all  equal  in  the  pain  of  loving.  Now,  speak;  I'll  help 
you.  Why  can't  you  love  him  any  longer  ?  The  other  even- 
ing perhaps  you  said  something  to  him — I  don't  know — I  am 
trying  to  think.  Sometimes  when  one  has  a  deep  feeling, 
one  betrays  it  in  spite  of  oneself.  And  then,  in  the  excite- 
ment of  the  ball,  in  the  joy  of  being  pretty  and  receiving 
attention,  you  may  have  said  something  significant — definite 
— that  he  did  not  understand,  that  he  did  not  wish  to  under- 
stand. 

MADELEINE.    Oh,  no,  it's  not  that — just  the  opposite. 

CLAIRE.  [As  to  herself.]  Just  the  opposite?  Ah,  ah! 
Well,  then,  this  evening,  something  happened.  Speak;  be 
courageous. 

MADELEINE.  Oh,  well — I'm  going  to  tell  you  everything, 
because  I  can't  keep  it  to  myself  any  longer.  It  strangles 
me.  Well,  then — oh,  no,  it  isn't  possible !  I  can't ! 

CLAIRE.  Madeleine,  my  child,  what  can  it  be?  Please, 
please  tell  me. 


260  MAURICE  DONNAY 

MADELEINE.  Oh,  well,  then — it's  a  conversation  I  heard. 
Some  people  were  speaking — a  man  and  a  woman  I  didn't 
know.  I  sat  near  them;  they  didn't  know  I  was  your 
daughter. 

CLAIRE.    Yes,  yes,  go  on. 

MADELEINE.  They  spoke  of  you  and  of  him,  and  they 
said  that  you  were  his 

CLAIRE.    It's  not  true !    It's  not  true ! 

MADELEINE.    But  you  haven't  let  me 

CLAIRE.  I  guess  what  they  might  say  and  I  think  I 
hear  them.  I  understand  now  your  despair  and  your  silence 
and  why  you  have  spoken  to  me  just  now,  not  as  a  girl 
to  her  mother,  but  as  a  woman  to  her  rival;  no,  I  am  not 
your  rival !  My  poor  child,  it  is  true,  you  do  not  know  what 
the  world  is,  but  a  cruel  moment  has  been  sufficient  for  you 
to  learn  its  wickedness,  its  thoughtlessness,  and  the  custo- 
mary tone  of  its  conversations. 

MADELEINE.  But  they  said  that  about  you,  Mamma, 
about  you! 

CLAIRE.  There  is  no  woman  who  is  safe  from  these 
insinuations  and  slanders;  you  will  understand  this  later. 
A  man  and  a  woman  are  intimate,  are  friends;  the  world 
draws  from  it  certain  conclusions. 

MADELEINE.  But  these  people  do  not  know  you;  you 
have  done  nothing  to  them;  they  are  bad,  then. 

CLAIRE.  No,  perhaps  they  are  not  bad;  they  said  that 
without  attaching  any  importance  to  it,  not  knowing 
you  were  there  and  that  what  they  said  so  lightly,  would 
fall  heavily  on  your  heart — for  you  believed  it. 

MADELEINE.  No,  no!  I  didn't  want  to  believe  it.  I 
mean,  I  don't  know — I  wanted  to  forget  those  horrid  words, 
but,  in  spite  of  myself,  I  heard  them  continually;  they  rang 
in  my  ears.  It  was  the  downfall  of  my  fondest  ideal  in  you, 


THE  OTHER  DANGER  261 

and  in  him  of  my  sweetest  dream.  Oh,  those  words!  I 
should  have  heard  them  always  or  rather  I  should  have  died 
of  them!  Yes,  died! 

CLAIRE.     Don't  say  that. 

MADELEINE.  Only  an  hour  ago,  I  assure  you,  I  didn't 
care  much  for  life.  I  remember  that  evening  I  was  so 
happy;  I  had  just  been  talking  with  him,  and  for  the  first 
time  I  was  sure  he  loved  me. 

CLAIRE.     How? 

MADELEINE.  Oh,  he  didn't  tell  me  he  did!  He  is  far 
too  considerate  for  that;  but  you  know,  we  women  are  not 
deceived  in  such  a  matter — we  feel  those  things,  and  then — 
imagine  it — we  had  a  little  quarrel  and  I  saw  it  was  because 
he  was  jealous  of  a  fool  with  whom  I  danced,  a  certain 
Prabert — Prabert,  just  think  of  it!  The  dear!  He  con- 
trolled himself  at  once,  of  course.  All  the  same,  he  was 
angry — and  I  was  so  glad — and  there,  a  few  minutes  after, 
those  people  had  to — oh,  it's  dreadful !  Then  I  understood 
his  reserve  with  me,  his  coldness  for  some  time  previously, 
and  why  he  no  longer  came  to  the  house  so  often,  as  if  he 
wished  to  avoid  me,  to  shun  me — and  then  the  thought, 
especially  that  such  a  thing  was  the  obstacle  to  my  hap- 
piness. 

CLAIRE.    But  you  don't  believe  it  now  any  longer? 

MADELEINE.    No,  I  don't  believe  it  any  longer. 

CLAIRE.    Ah,  you  don't  say  that  with  conviction. 

MADELEINE.  No,  it's  not  true;  it's  not  true!  You  as- 
sure me  on  your  word — you  swear  it? 

CLAIRE.     Yes,  I  swear  it. 

MADELEINE.     On  my  life? 

CLAIRE.  Yes,  on  your — [she  checks  herself  and  says] — 
on  your  happiness,  for,  you  see,  life  without  happiness  is 
nothing — on  your  happiness 

MADELEINE.     But  my  happiness  is  to  be  his  wife! 


262  MAURICE  DONNAY 

CLAIRE.  Since  you  love  him  and  he  loves  you,  you  shall 
be  his  wife.  Do  you  believe  me  now? 

MADKLEINE.  Oh,  yes,  Mamma!  I  beg  your  pardon. 
Ah,  if  you  knew  what  a  weight  has  been  removed.  I  can 
breathe  now ;  I  can  live  again ;  I  am  going  to  be  well ;  I  feel 
it,  I  promise  you.  You  shall  not  be  sad  any  more  on  my 
account.  I'll  not  make  you  cry  again. 

[At  this  moment  a  maid  comes  in. 

MARIE.  Madame,  Monsieur  Freydieres  wishes  to  speak 
with  you. 

CLAIRE.  Tell  Madame  Chenevas  to  come  here.  Have 
Monsieur  Freydieres  come  in  when  I  ring. 

MARIE.     Very  well,  Madame. 

[She  goes  out. 

MADELEINE.  It's  he;  it's  he!  I  don't  want  to  see 
him ; — I'm  going  away.  What  are  you  going  to  say  to  him  ? 
Be  sure  to  question  him  very  carefully.  Don't  seem  to  be 
throwing  me  at  his  head.  Well,  I  trust  myself  to  you.  My 
happiness  is  in  your  hands. 

CLAIRE.     You  may  entrust  it  to  me;  it  will  be  safe. 

[MME.  CHENEVAS  enters. 

MME.  CHENEVAS.     You  wanted  me? 

CLAIRE.  Yes,  Freydieres  is  here.  I  want  to  speak  to 
him;  take  Madeleine  away  and  stay  with  her. 

MME.  CHENEVAS.     Yes. 

[She  goes  out  with  MADELEINE;  CLAIRE  remains  alone, 
a  prey  to  what  thoughts  can  be  imagined;  then  she  rings. 
The  maid  shows  FREYDIERES  in.] 

FREYDIERES.     Good-morning,  Claire;  how  are  you? 

CLAIRE.     Not  very  well,  as  you  can  imagine. 

FREYDIERES.     How  is  Madeleine  this  morning? 

CLAIRE.  Better,  thank  you ;  at  least  I  hope  she  is  going 
to  be  better.  Ah,  I  have  spent  two  wretched  weeks.  I 
have  thought  a  good  deal  and  I  must  speak  to  you  very  seri- 


THE  OTHER  DANGER  263 

ously.  [She  motions  him  to  sit  down.]  For  some  time, 
life  has  been  very  sad  around  me  and  in  the  midst  of  so 
many  anxieties  of  all  sorts,  I  have  found  out — I  have  come 
to  feel  that  I  ought  not  to  love  you  any  more  as  I  have  in 
the  past.  Oh,  I  shall  always  feel  for  you,  don't  doubt  it,  a 
great  affection;  but  I  want  to  ask  you  whether  we  can't 
both  agree  to  change  our  love,  which  has  so  much  torture 
and  remorse  and  perhaps  disaster,  into  a  faithful,  devoted 
friendship,  full  of  calm  security — that  doesn't  mean  that 
we  must  forget.  Does  such  a  request  from  me  surprise 
you? 

FREYDIERES.  I  must  admit  it  does.  But  why  such  a 
change  ? 

CLAIRE.  I  am  no  longer  the  woman  you  have  known. 
So  far  I  have  always  believed  that  love  was  every- 
thing. I  have  been  imprudent,  jealous,  sensual,  exclusive, 
passionate,  but,  you  see,  there  are  other  things  also.  I 
have  realized  it  fully  to-day;  all  that  was  needed  to  have 
my  feelings  towards  you  change  was  that  Madeleine  should 
fall  ill  and  that  I  should  feel  myself  being  punished  in  her. 
Jacques,  for  five  years  you  have  been  my  only  reason  for 
living;  you  will  remain,  whatever  may  happen,  the  only  one 
whom  I  have  ever  loved. 

FREYDIERES.     My  dear  Claire! 
CLAIRE.     Besides,  it  seems  that  you  are  going  away. 
FREYDIERES.     Yes. 

CLAIRE.  It  was  only  a  moment  ago  and  from  Etienne 
that  I  learned  this  news. 

FREYDIERES.  Don't  be  offended;  during  these  last  days, 
I  could  not  speak  to  you  about  it,  in  the  midst  of  your 
anxieties.  Besides,  the  date  of  my  leaving  was  not  defi- 
nitely decided;  but  now  I  leave  Paris  day  after  to-morrow. 
CLAIRE.  Yes,  you  are  going  away  because  you  do  not 
love  me  any  more. 


264  MAURICE  DONNAY 

FREYDIERES.     Claire,  why  do  you  say  that? 

CLAIRE.  Because,  anticipating  your  pity,  I  wanted  to 
help  you  in  your  weakness.  For  a  long  time  I  have  felt 
you  were  growing  away  from  me  and  I  have  spoken  first 
so  as  to  make  the  disagreeable  task  of  speaking  to  me 
easier  for  you.  Don't  spare  me  then.  Be  frank  and  brave. 
But  you  are  crying? 

FREYDIERES.  Yes,  I  am  crying — for  you,  and  for  the 
pain  I  am  giving  you — for  I've  not  been  deceived  by  your 
generous  ruse. 

CLAIRE.  No,  you've  not  been  deceived;  but  you've  not 
protested;  you've  not  cried  out  against  it.  Then  cry — 
your  tears  are  an  avowal.  You  don't  love  me  any  longer ;  it 
is  not  your  fault.  I  bear  you  no  ill-will.  On  the  contrary, 
I  pity  you,  for  you  are  unhappy.  A  tragedy  is  taking 
place  in  your  heart,  for  you  not  only  do  not  love  me  any 
more  but  you  love  someone  else. 

FREYDIERES.     I  swear  to  you 

CLAIRE.     You  love  someone  else:  my  daughter. 

FREYDIERES.     No,  Claire,  you  are  mistaken. 

CLAIRE.  Ah,  so  much  the  worse;  for  she  loves  you  and 
what  is  more  serious,  she  has  reason  to  believe  that  you 
love  her. 

FREYDIERES.     I  have  never  told  her  so. 

CLAIRE.  Ah,  you  see!  Well,  that  is  what  I  want  to 
know.  It  is  horrible  what  you  have  just  said;  there  is 
no  name  for  it.  I  understand  that  you  have  had  enough 
of  me.  At  the  end  of  five  years  I  have  ceased  to  please 
you.  Five  years!  That's  pretty  long  and  I  can't  com- 
plain. I  have  given  you  all  my  heart  and  all  my  body; 
you  don't  wish  them  any  longer;  so  be  it!  I  understand 
that  you  are  tired  of  adultery  and  of  its  complications, 
its  deceits,  and  its  restraints.  I  understand  that  you  want 
a  lover  who  is  free.  I  remember  also  that  you  are  reach- 


THE  OTHER  DANGER  265 

ing  an  age  when  a  man  feels  the  need  of  having  a  home 
of  his  own.  I  should  have  understood  that  you  would 
leave  me  to  marry;  that  you  would  choose  a  girl;  that  is 
natural — but  not  my  daughter.  Oh,  no,  not  her!  She 
should  have  been  sacred  to  you  above  all  else;  you  should 
not  have  even  so  much  as  thought  of  her — and  yet  you  did 
think  of  her. 

FREYDIERES.  You  are  mistaken,  Claire.  But  what 
design  do  you  attribute  to  me  then?  You  speak  to  me  as 
if  I  were  to  blame  for  what  has  happened,  but  I  don't  know 
how  this  feeling  was  born  in  me — truly,  I  don't  know.  But 
think  how  I  have  seen  her  constantly;  to  live  continually 
with  her  has  been  a  dangerous  test.  I  have  fallen  in  love, 
in  spite  of  myself — yes,  in  spite  of  myself — by  that  mys- 
terious charm  of  the  young  girl  which,  in  the  case  of 
Madeleine,  is  overpowering  because  it  comes  from  inno- 
cence itself.  And  then  one  does  not  realize;  one  does  not 
think  so  sweet  a  perfume  will  intoxicate,  but  it  does  in- 
toxicate, and  one  is  completely  permeated  with  it.  I 
didn't  understand  what  was  taking  place  in  me.  What 
I'm  telling  you  now  I  did  not  formulate  even  to  myself. 
Besides,  it  has  not  been  such  a  long  time  since  I  thought 
of  her  as  a  child,  as  a  little  girl  I  had  known — and  it  was 
only  the  day  when  I  saw  the  confusion  she  experienced 
near  me,  that  I  understood  the  nature  of  the  charm  I  felt 
near  her — and  her  love  has  revealed  mine  to  me.  Then  I 
wished  to  go  away.  I  didn't  want  to  come  to  this  house 
any  more.  Remember,  you  were  the  first  to  be  alarmed  at 
my  absence.  There  was  then  no  premeditation  on  my  part 
nor  treason  towards  you.  I  have  not  made  her  love  me.  I 
have  never  spoken  one  word  of  love  to  her.  I  neither 
defend  nor  accuse  myself.  I  am  simply  explaining  to  you, 
sincerely. 

CLAIRE,     Cruelly. 


266  MAURICE  DONNAY 

FREYDIERES.  It's  the  same  thing.  I  am  explaining  to 
you  what  has  taken  place  in  me, — and  you  ought  to  believe 
me.  Claire,  I  beg  you  to  believe  me.  The  proof  is,  that  I 
have  decided  not  to  see  her  any  more. 

CLAIRE.  I  believe  you — I  believe  you.  But  it  is  none 
the  less  horrible  for  me.  Only  think ! — you  two ! — you  two ! 
And  I  can  say  nothing.  It  is  you — you — who  plunge  the 
knife  into  my  heart;  and  my  daughter  who  stops  my  mouth 
so  that  I  cannot  cry  out.  You  two  will  murder  me.  [She 
breaks  into  sobs.] 

FREYDIERES.     Claire,  listen  to  me. 

CLAIRE.  [In  tears.]  Oh,  let  me  alone! — let  me  alone! 
Don't  say  anything  more.  I  had  resolved  to  be  more  cour- 
ageous, but  it's  too  much  for  me.  I  don't  blame  you,  even. 
I'm  not  jealous  of  my  daughter,  am  I? — I  did  wrong  to 
have  you  become  so  intimate  in  the  family.  I  should  have 
foreseen  that  one  day  Madeleine  would  be  eighteen;  but 
one  never  thinks  of  that  other  danger — that  you  would 
find  again  in  her — they  say  she  resembles  me — your  first 
and  early  love  for  me.  Oh,  don't  protest;  it's  all  the  same 
to  me  now !  I  don't  care  for  anything  any  more.  One  hour 
like  this  makes  one  grow  twenty  years  older.  I  shall  be 
more  than  old;  I  shall  survive  myself.  But  it's  no  longer 
a  question  of  me.  It's  a  question  of  my  daughter.  What 
are  you  going  to  do  ? 

FREYDIERES.  I  have  told  you;  I  am  going  away,  and  I 
shall  not  see  her  again. 

CLAIRE.     I  can't  tell  Madeleine  that. 

FREYDIERES.     You  have  nothing  to  tell  her. 

CLAIRE.  She  knows  you  are  here,  and  after  the  ex- 
planation I  have  just  had  with  her 

FREYDIERES.     The  explanation? 

CLAIRE.  I  have  just  learned  from  her,  herself,  why  she 
was  upset  the  other  evening,  at  the  Ernsteins'.  She  has  con- 


THE  OTHER  DANGER  267 

fessed  to  me  that  that  evening  she  overheard  a  conversation 
which  revealed  our  liaison.  Do  you  understand? 

FREYDIERES.     Oh!    And  then? 

CLAIRE.  I  declared  it  wasn't  true.  I  took  my  oath 
upon  her  life — upon  her  happiness — and  I  did  not  hesitate 
to  take  such  an  oath,  I  assure  you. 

FREYDIERES.     You  did  right — quite  right. 

CLAIRE.     I  did  right,  didn't  I? 

FREYDIERES.     Yes. 

CLAIRE.  I  went  further,  so  that  in  spite  of  the  oath 
there  shouldn't  remain  the  slightest  doubt,  since  you  both 
love  each  other.  I  told  her  that  she  should  be  your  wife. 

FREYDIERES.  What!  You  would  have  me  marry  Made- 
leine? Claire,  don't  think  of  it — it's  impossible.  I  don't 
want  to — I  can't.  And  it  is  you  who  propose  such  a  thing 
to  me?  But  you  certainly  have  not  thought  it  over.  You 
certainly  have  not  considered  the  dreadful  situation  such 
a  solution  would  put  us  in. 

CLAIRE.  I'm  not  concerned  about  us,  but  about  Made- 
leine. She  will  not  know — that  is  the  essential  thing. 

FREYDIERES.  But  suppose,  later,  she  should  learn  the 
truth?  She  would  have  the  right  to  blame  us  for  hav- 
ing built  her  happiness  upon  a  deception. 

CLAIRE.     Upon  a  sacrifice. 

FREYDIERES.  Your  sacrifice  blinds  you  too  much  to  the 
nature  of  the  resolution  you  have  taken. 

CLAIRE.  But  when  a  woman  has  a  man  by  her  side  who 
can  defend  her,  there  are  certain  things  that  people  don't 
come  to  tell  her.  The  world  is  not  brave. 

FREYDIERES.  Ah!  since  you  speak  of  it,  how  will  the 
world  judge  us?  It  will  say  that  you  have  shamelessly 
given  your  lover  to  your  daughter,  and  it  will  blame  us 
for  making  such  a  union. 

CLAIRE.     The  world  will  not  save  my  daughter.     Then 


268  MAURICE  DONNAY 

it's  of  no  account  what  it  will  say.  I  have  sworn  to  Made- 
leine that  I  have  not  been  your  mistress.  I  have  promised 
her  that  she  shall  be  your  wife.  We  are  bound  by  my 
promise. 

FREYDIERES.     You  are — not  I. 

CLAIRE.     We  are  both  alike  bound. 

FREYDIERES.  Listen  to  me,  Claire ;  a  thing  like  this  is 
impossible.  We  are  discussing  it  like  two  enemies — two  ad- 
versaries. It  is  dreadful.  Now,  let  us  unite.  Let  us  work 
together.  We  must  give  reasons  to  Madeleine.  Yes,  it 
is  true  our  love  founders  hopelessly  in  such  frightful  cir- 
cumstances, but  we  ought  to  remain  friends — two  tender, 
sorrowful  friends.  I  have  loved  you,  Claire ;  I  have  loved 
you.  I  am  tortured  myself,  and  I  suffer.  I  am  crying — I 
feel  all  the  heartrending  anguish  of  the  separation.  But,  at 
least,  let  us  not  make  a  bride's  bouquet  out  of  the  funeral 
wreath.  Ah !  believe  me,  your  sacrifice  is  useless ;  it  is  not 
Madeleine's  happiness  you  have  decided. 

CLAIRE.     Why? 

FREYDIERES.  Because  happiness  is  more  exacting;  be- 
cause, admitting,  even,  that  she  would  never  know  any- 
thing, and  that  her  confidence  in  you  has  dispelled  all  her 
doubts,  you  would  always  be,  virtually,  mysteriously  near 
us — between  us;  her  woman's  instinct  would  divine  your 
wandering  presence,  and  her  filial  heart  would  break  with 
anguish.  No,  I'm  perfectly  sure  we  should  not  be  happy. 

CLAIRE.  Oh,  don't  say  that !  At  that  time,  I  was  near 
you — between  you — and  yet  you  loved  each  other.  But  if 
this  door  should  open  now,  and  Madeleine  should  come  in, 
the  brightness  of  a  beautiful  day  would  come  in  with  her; 
you  would  no  longer  peer  into  the  gloomy  past,  and  happi- 
ness would  appear  to  you  certain  and  desirable. 

FREYDIERES.  I  know  nothing  about  it.  Perhaps  it  is 
true.  Everything  is  possible ;  but  I  don't  want  even  to  think 


THE  OTHER  DANGER  269 

of  it;  I  don't  want  to  live,  knowing  you  are  buried  alive. 
No,  no,  Claire;  listen  to  me!  I  am  ready  to  do  anything. 
I  shall  go  away  forever;  I  shall  disappear,  if  it  is  neces- 
sary. I  shall  begin  life  again,  somewhere  else,  no  mat- 
ter where;  but  for  Madeleine  it  would  be  as  if  I  were 
dead. 

CLAIRE.     Then  she  will  say,  "  It  was  true,  then !  " 

FREYDIERES.  Why,  no.  Tell  her  she  was  mistaken — 
that  I  do  not  love  her;  for  I  have  never  said  anything 
that  would  lead  her  to  believe 

CLAIRE.  Your  way  of  acting  with  her  has  shown  it, 
and  your  fit  of  jealousy  the  other  evening  broke  out  before 
penetrating  eyes.  Well,  there  you  should  have  been  a  bet- 
ter master  of  yourself. 

FREYDIERES.  Oh,  why  have  I  known  Madeleine?  Ah, 
yes,  you  did  wrong  to  draw  me  to  your  house,  and  I  did 
wrong  not  to  resist.  Then  your  daughter  has  grown  up 
near  us,  in  the  subtle  influence  of  our  love — in  the  con- 
tagious atmosphere  of  our  guilty  love;  and,  from  com- 
promise to  compromise,  we  have  come  to-day  to  discuss — to 
dare  to  discuss — an  infamy — a  veritable  crime. 

CLAIRE.  How  many  a  secret  tragedy  takes  place  around 
us,  and  we  are  ignorant  of  the  silent  denouement 

FREYDIERES.     And  false 

CLAIRE.     And  painful 

FREYDIERES.     The  pain  is  no  excuse. 

CLAIRE.  My  excuse  is  that  for  two  weeks  I  have  wit- 
nessed the  agony  of  my  child,  and  there  is  only  one  way  to 
save  her. 

FREYDIERES.  You  are  possessed  now  with  the  idea  that 
your  daughter  might  die,  and  this  idea  hides  everything 
else ;  but  she  is  eighteen  years  old. — Eighteen !  That  is  to 
say,  a  whole  lifetime  is  before  her  in  which  to  forget, — and 
she  will  forget. 


270  MAURICE  DONNAY 

CLAIRE.  And  if  she  shouldn't  be  one  of  those  who  for- 
get,— should  there  be  only  one  chance  of  her  dying  of  it, — 
it  is  this  one  chance  that  we  must  avert. 

FREYDIERES.     Oh,  you'd  better  have  told  her  the  truth! 

CLAIRE.  It's  only  in  novels  that  one  tells  the  truth. 
But,  in  life,  when  chance  discovers  it,  one  tries  to  cover  it 
up  in  order  not  to  provoke  some  irreparable  misfortune. 

FREYDIERES.  The  truth  is  far  better,  however,  with  all 
its  consequences,  than  such  an  anomalous  situation  as  ours. 

CLAIRE.  You  would,  then,  prefer  to  have  me  tell 
Madeleine  the  truth? 

FREYDIERES.     Yes — a  hundred  times  rather! 

CLAIRE.  Ah !  you  would  not  speak  that  way  if  you  had 
seen  her ;  if,  like  me,  you  had  held  in  your  arms  a  miserable 
child,  white  and  trembling;  if,  like  me,  you  had  read  in  her 
anxious  eyes  the  terror  of  my  fault  and  the  shame  of  her 
besmirched  love!  You  would  understand  how  I  have  not 
had  the  courage — the  barbarity — to  tell  her  the  cruel 
truth.  Yes,  I  have  promised  her  everything ;  I  have  pledged 
my  sacred  word,  because,  above  and  beyond  the  truth,  there 
is  her  purity — her  tender  youth;  because,  above  everything, 
there  is  pity.  And  since  you  speak  of  crime,  the  real  crime 
would  have  been  to  smite,  perhaps  fatally,  an  innocent  child 
— do  you  understand,  innocent?  If  you  don't  think  so,  tell 
Madeleine  yourself  your  resolution;  tell  her  you  are 
going  away,  and  that  you  will  not  return.  If  you  have 
decided  that  that  is  your  duty,  assume  all  the  responsibility 
of  it  with  her,  and  spare  me,  at  least,  the  torture  of  a  new 
explanation  with  my  child.  Besides,  I  could  not — I  have 
no  more  strength.  I  am  going  to  have  her  called,  and  you 
will  speak  to  her.  [She  rings  the  bell.] 

FREYDIERES.     Do  you  realize  what  you  are  doing,  Claire? 

CLAIRE.     I  most  certainly  do. 

[The  maid  comes  in. 


THE  OTHER  DANGER  271 

MARIE.     Did  Madame  ring? 

CLAIRE.     Tell  Mademoiselle  to  come,  please. 

MARIE.     Very  well,  Madame.      [She  goes  out.] 

FREYDIERES.     How  do  you  want  me  to  tell  her? 

CLAIRE.  I  don't  know.  You  will  probably  find  reasons 
that  I  was  unable  to. 

MADELEINE.  [Entering.]  You  want  to  see  me, 
Mamma  ? 

CLAIRE.  Yes,  my  dear;  Monsieur  Freydieres  would  like 
to  speak  to  you. 

MADELEINE.  [Smiling.]  Ah!  [Then,  seeing  the  con- 
fusion of  FREYDIERES.]  How  you  look  at  me!  Do  you  find 
me  changed?  I  have  been  very  sick,  you  know — very  sick. 

FREYDIERES.     I  see  it  very  well. 

MADELEINE.  But  you  frighten  me!  You  don't  seem  to 
recognize  me.  Have  I  changed,  then,  so  much  as  that? 
Ah!  I  can't  be  very  pretty,  and  I  am  not  a  coquette,  to 
appear  with  such  a  face.  But  you  want  to  speak  to  me? 

FREYDIERES.  [With  a  great  effort.]  Yes;  I  have  come 
to  say  farewell. 

MADELEINE.  [Very  much  moved.]  Farewell?  You  are 
going  away? 

FREYDIERES.     Yes,  I  am  going  away. 

MADELEINE.  Why  do  you  say  farewell  to  me,  and  not 
just  good-by?  You  are  going  away  forever?  I  sha'n't 
see  you  any  more — not  any  more  at  all?  [Her  eyes 
fill  with  tears;  she  is  on  the  point  of  falling.] 

FREYDIERES.  [Springing  towards  her.]  No,  no,  Made- 
leine, I  shall  come  back — I  shall  come  back!  I'm  obliged 
to  go  away.  When  I  made  this  decision,  your  mother  had 
not  yet  spoken  to  me.  I  didn't  know,  then,  your  feelings; 
but  if  they  have  not  changed — on  my  return 

MADELEINE.  Here  is  my  hand,  my  dear  friend.  What- 
ever may  happen,  my  feelings  will  never  change.  [She 


272  MAURICE  DONNAY 

throws  herself  into  her  mother's  arms;  then,  very  much 
embarrassed,  she  says:]  I  left  Aunt  Alice  very  anxious. 
I  promised  to  reassure  her.  I'll  go  to  find  her.  [She 
goes  out.] 

FREYDIERES.  You  were  right: — it  is  only  in  novels  that 
people  tell  the  truth.  When  I  saw  this  child —  But  what 
is  going  to  become  of  you? 

CLAIRE.  Life  is  over  for  me;  it  goes  on  for  you.  You 
will  forget,  and  I  shall  be  resigned. 

FREYDIERES.     Nevertheless,  our  shares  are  not  equal. 

CLAIRE.  You  know  very  well  that  in  love  it  is  always 
the  woman  who  pays  the  penalty. 

FREYDIERES.     I  reverence  you. 

CLAIRE.  I'm  a  most  unhappy  woman.  [She  cries  in 
silencef  while  the  curtain  falls.] 


CLARK'S  CONTINENTAL  DRAMA  OF  TO-DAY— Outline* 
for  Its  Study 

By  BARRETT  H.  CLARK,  Editor  of  and  Translator  of  two  of 
the  plays  in  "Three  Modern  French  Plays."  12mo. 
$1.35  net. 

Suggestions,  questions,  biographies,  and  bibliographies  for 
use  in  connection  with  the  study  of  some  of  the  more  import- 
ant plays  of  IBSEN,  BJORNSEN,  STRINDBERG,  TOLSTOY,  GORKY, 
TCHEKOFF,  ANDREYEFF,  HAUPTMANN,  SUDERMANN,  WEDEKIND, 

SCHNITZLER,  VON  HOFFMANSTHAL,  BECQUE,  L£  MAlTRE,  LAVE- 
DAN,     DONNAY,     MAETERLINCK,     ROSTAND,     BRIEUX,     HERVIEU, 

GIACOSA,  D'ANNUNZIO,  ECHEGARAY,  and  GALDOS. 

In  half  a  dozen  or  less  pages  for  each  play,  Mr.  Clark 
tries  to  indicate,  in  a  way  suggestive  to  playwriters  and 
students,  how  the  skilled  dramatists  write  their  plays.  It  is 
intended  that  the  volume  shall  be  used  in  connection  with 
the  reading  of  the  plays  themselves,  but  it  also  has  an  inde- 
pendent interest  in  itself. 

Prof.  William  Lyon  Phelps  of  Yale:  ".  .  ,  One  of  the  most  useful 
works  on  the  contemporary  drama.  .  .  .  Extremely  practical,  full 
of  valuable  hints  and  suggestions.  .  .  ." 

Providence  Journal:  "Of  undoubted  value.  ...  At  the  com- 
pletion of  a  study  of  the  plays  in  connection  with  the  'Outline'  one 
should  have  a  definite  knowledge  of  the  essentials  of  dramatic  tech- 
nique in  general,  and  of  the  modern  movement  in  particular." 

Sixth  Edition,  Enlarged  and  with  Portraits 
HALE'S    DRAMATIST'S    OF    TO-DAY 

By  PROF.  EDWARD  EVERETT  HALE,  JR.,  of  Union  College. 
ROSTAND,      HAUPTMANN,      SUDERMANN, 
PINERO,  SHAW,  PHILLIPS,  MAETERLINCK 

"A  Note  on  Standards  of  Criticism,"  "Our  Idea  of 
Tragedy,"  and  an  appendix  of  all  the  plays  of  each  author, 
with  dates  of  their  first  performance  or  publication,  complete 
the  volume.  $1.50  net. 

New  York  Evening  Post:  "It  is  not  often  nowadays  that  a  theatrical 
book  can  be  met  with  so  free  from  gush  and  mere  eulogy,  or  so 
weighted  by  common  sense  ...  an  excellent  chronological  appendix 
and  full  index  .  .  .  uncommonly  useful  for  reference." 

Brooklyn  Eagle:  "A  dramatic  critic  who  is  not  just  'busting^  himself 
with  Titanic  intellectualities,  but  who  is  a  readable  dramatic  critic. 
.  .  .  .  Mr.  Hale  is  a  modest  and  sensible,  as  well  as  an  acute  and 
sound  critic.  .  .  .  Most  people  will  be  surprised  and  delighted  with 
Mr.  Hale's  simplicity,  perspicuity  and  ingenuousness." 

HENRY    HOLT    AND    COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW    YORK 


By     GEORGE      MIDDLETON 

NOWADAYS' 

A  Play  in  Three  Acts.    2nd  printing.    $1.00  net. 

A  comedy-drama  of  present-day  conditions.  It  deals  specifically  with 
the  conflicting  demands  made  upon  a  mother  by  her  conservative  hus- 
band and  her  radical  daughter  which  lead  to  a  series  of  situations 
revealing  the  deep  comedy  of  modern  life  as  it  affects  "the  family 
feeling."  It  is  a  quiet  play  with  an  unusual  love  story  and  is  prob- 
ably the  first  by  an  American  dramatist  which  attempts  to  portray,  in 
a  sympathetic  fashion,- the  real  meaning  of  the  so-called  woman  move- 
ment. X 

New  York  Evening  Post:  "...  notable  not  only  as  a  sane 
and  veracious  study  of  contemporary  life,  but  for  the  dramatic  quali- 
ties which  ought  to  make  it  valuable  in  the  theatre.  .'  .  .  A  strong 
and  effective  plea  for  a  more  equal  partnership  for  women  in  the  oppor- 
tunities and  responsibilities  of  life.  .  .  .  The  story,  free  from  all 
sensationalism  or  extravagance,  is  strong  in  the  naturalness  of  its  sit- 
uations and  the  vitality  of  its  contrasted  personages.  .  .  ." 

EMBERS 

With  THE  FAILURES,  THE  GARGOYLE,  IN  His  HOUSE,  MA- 
DONNA and  THE  MAN  MASTERFUL.  2nd  printing.  $1.35 
net. 

These  one-act  plays  of  American  Life  To-day  are  perfectly  practical 
for  clever  amateurs  and  especially  available  for  club  discussion  and 
reading.  Embers  shows  the  inflyence  of  an  ideal  on  a  life;  The  Failures 
portrays  what  love  may  become  in  weak  characters.  The  Gargoyle  shows 
the  pathos  and  insincerity  of  the  literary  temperament.  In  His  House 
and  The  Man  Masterful  are  intimate  studies  of  marriage.  Madonna 
is  a  delicate  picture  of  a  girl's  psychology  on  her  wedding  eve. 

Prof.  William  Lyon  Phelps  of  Yale:  "The  plays  are  admirable;  the 
conversations  have  the  true  style  of  human  speech,  and  show  first-rate 
economy  of  vjprds,  eyery  syllable  advancing  the  plot.  The  little  dramas 
are  full  of  cerebration,  and  I  shall  recommend  them  ki  my  public 
lectures." 

TRADITION 

With  ON  BAIL,  MOTHERS,  WAITING,  THEIR  WIFE  and  THE 
CHEAT  OF  PITY.  2nd  printing.  $1.35  net. 

A  companion  volume  to  the  above.  Tradition  deals  with  the  attempt 
of  the  dominant  though  kindly  man  of  the  family  to  crush  the  artistic 
ambitions  of  his  wife  and  daughter  through  their  economic  dependence. 
On  Bail  is  a  remorseless  picture  of  a  social  parasite.  Mothers  shows 
the  demands  of  society  upon  motherliness,  while  Waiting  is  a  tender 
portrayal  of  a  long  delayed  marriage  due  to  traditional  feelings.  Their 
Wife  is  an  ironical  comedy  in  the  miasma  of  intrigue;  The  Cheat  of 
Pity  gives  an  intimate  study  of  marriage  and  the  relative  claims  of 
passion  with  pity  and  the  habit  of  life. 

Clayton  Hamilton,  in  an  extended  notice  in  The  Bookman:  "All  of 
these  little  pieces  are  admirable  in  technique:  they  are  soundly  con- 
structed and  written  in  natural  and  lucid  dialogue.  .  .  .  He  has 
sounded  to  the  depths  the  souls  of  those  eccentric  and  extraordinary 
women  whom  he  has  chosen  to  depict." 

HENRY     HOLT     AND     COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


Lily  A.  Long's  RADISSON:  The  Voyager,  A  Play. 

12mo.  Probable  price  $1.00  (Nov.  7,  1914). 
A  highly  picturesque  play  in  four  acts  and  in  verse.  The 
central  figures  are  Radisson  the  redoubtable  voyageur  who 
explored  the  Upper  Mississippi,  his  brother-in-law  Groseil- 
liers,  Owera  the  daughter  of  an  Indian  chief  and  various 
other  Indians.  The  daring  resource  of  the  two  white  men  in 
the  fact  of  imminent  peril,  the  pathetic  love  of  Owera,  and 
above  all,  the  vivid  pictures  of  Indian  life,  the  women  grind- 
ing corn,  the  council,  dances,  feasting  and  famine  are  notable 
features,  and  over  it  all  is  a  somewhat  unusual  feeling  for 
the  moods  of  nature  which  closely  follow  those  of  the  people 
involved. 

THREE  MODERN  PLAYS  FROM  THE  FRENCH 

Lemaitre's  THE  PARDON,  and  Lavedan's  PRINCE  D'AUREC, 
translated  by  Barrett  H.  Clark,  with  Donnay's  THE  OTHER 
DANGER,  translated  by  Charlotte  Tenney  David,  with  an  intro- 
duction to  each  author  by  Barrett  H.  Clark  and  a  Preface 
by  Clayton  Hamilton.  One  volume.  Probable  price,  $1.50 
net.  "The  Pardon"  is  a  brilliant  three-act  love  comedy,  with 
but  three  characters.  "Prince  D'Aurec"  is  a  drama  with  an 
impoverished  Prince,  his  wife,  and  a  Jew  money-lender  as 
protagonists.  It  is  full  of  telling  satire  on  a  decadent  nobility. 
"The  Other  Danger"  is  a  tensely  emotional  play,  centering 
around  a  situation  similar  to  Paula  Tanqueray's,  but  the  out- 
come is  different. 

Alice  Johnstone  Walker's  LITTLE  PLAYS  FROM  AMERICAN 
HISTORY  FOR  YOUNG  FOLK 

$1.00  net. 

In  HIDING  THE  REGICIDES  there  are  a  number  of  brief  and 
stirring  episodes,  concerning  the  pursuit  of  Colonels  Whalley 
and  Goff  by  the  officers  of  Charles  II  at  New  Haven  in  old 
colony  days.  MRS.  MURRAY'S  DINNER  PARTY,  in  three  acts, 
is  a  lively  comedy  about  a  Patriot  hostess  and  British  Officers 
in  Revolutionary  Days.  In  the  four  SCENES  FROM  LINCOLN'S 
TIME,  the  martyred  President  does  not  himself  appear.  They 
cover  Lincoln's  helping  a  little  girl  with  her  trunk,  women 
preparing  lint  for  the  wounded,  a  visit  to  the  White  House  of 
an  important  delegation  from  New  York,  and  of  the  mother 
of  a  soldier  boy  sentenced  to  death — and  the  coming  of  the 
army  of  liberation  to  the  darkeys.  Tho  big  events  are  touched 
upon,  the  mounting  of  all  these  little  plays  is  simplicity  itself, 
and  they  have  stood  the  test  of  frequent  school  performance. 

HENRY     HOLT     AND     COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


Beulah  Marie  Due's  ALLISON'S    LAD    AND    OTHER 
MARTIAL    INTERLUDES 

By  the  co-author  of  the  play,  "The  Road  to  Yesterday,"  and 
author  of  the  novels,  "The  Fighting  Blade,"  "The  Making 
of  Christopher  Ferringham,"  etc.  $1.35  net;  by  mail,  $1.45. 

Allison's  Lad,  The  Hundredth  Trick,  The  Weakest  Link, 
The  Snare  and  the  Fowler,  The  Captain  of  the  Gate,  The 
Dark  of  the  Dawn. 

Six  stirring  war  episodes,  perfectly  practicable  for  perform- 
ance by  clever  amateurs ;  at  the  same  time  they  make  decidedly 
interesting  reading.  Most  of  them  occur  in  the  dread  pause 
before  some  mighty  conflict.  Three  in  Cromwellian  days,  one 
at  the  close  of  the  French  Revolution,  another  at  the  time  of 
the  Hundred  Years'  War,  and  the  last  during  the  Thirty  Years' 
War.  The  author  has  most  ingeniously  managed  to  give  the 
feeling  of  big  events,  though  employing  but  few  players.  The 
emotional  grip  is  strong,  even  tragic. 

"  The  technical  mastery  of  Miss  Dix  is  great,  but  her  spiritual  mastery 
is  greater.  For  this  book  iives  in  memory,  and  the  spirit  of  its  teachings  is, 
in  a  most  intimate  sense,  the  spirit  of  its  teacher.  Noble  passion  holding 
the  balance  between  life  and  death  is  the  motif  sharply  outlined  and  vigor- 
ously portrayed.  In  each  interlude  the  author  has  seized  upon  a  vital 
situation  and  has  massed  all  her  forces  so  as  to  enhance  its  significance.  " — 
Boston  Transcript. 

Martin  Schiitze's  HERO  AND  LEANDER 

A  drama  in  verse,  $1.25  net;  by  mail,  $1.33. 

"Mr.  Schutze  has  given  us  a  new  Holofernes,  and  in  doing  this  he  has 
very  greatly  intensified  the  tragic  situation.  .  .  .  A  well-developed  tragical 
motif  .  .  •  that  wonderful  moment  of  climax  .  .  .  the  tragic  integrity  of 
the  character  of  Judith  is  maintained.  .  .  .  The  details  of  the  drama  are 
well  carried  out.  .  .  .  Mr.  Schutze  has  not  only  been  able  to  change  tradi- 
tional elements  in  the  old  story  and  yet  render  his  version  strong  and 
convincing,  but  he  has  also  given  as  a  memorable  addition  to  the  old  Judith 
legend.  "—Boston  Transcript. 

Martin  Schiitze's  JUDITH 

A  drama  in  verse.    $1.25  net;  by  mail  $1.33 

"Perhaps  the  fullest  and  strongest  drama  that  has  ever  been  written 
about  these  lovers.  " — Chicago  Record-Herald. 

"The  consecration  of  the  Hero  in  the  Temple  of  Venus,  the  apparition  of 
Leander,  his  encounter  with  the  temple  guards,  the  episodes  attending  Hero's 
surrender  and  the  storm  with  its  tragic  outcome  are  all  valuable  theatrical 
incidents  ...  a  capable,  dignified  and  interesting  composition  which 
would  be  a  credit  to  any  theatre  producing  It.  ''—Nation. 

HENRY     HOLT     AND     COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW   YORK 


ARCHIBALD   HENDERSON'S   THE  CHANGING  DRAMA 

Its  Contributions  and  Tendencies.  By  the  Author  of  "George 
Bernard  Shaw :  His  Life  and  Works,"  "European  Drama- 
tists," etc.  12mo.  Probable  price,  $1.50  net. 

\ 

The  pioneer  book  in  English  in  its  field.  While  a  number 
of  good  books,  taking  up  important  dramatists  and  discussing 
them  one  after  another,  are  available,  this  is  probably  the  first 
that  describes  the  significant  changes  and  movements  in  the 
drama  of  the  last  half  century,  illustrating  them  by  the  work  of 
leading  dramatists  and  by  apt  citations  of  and  quotations  from 
their  plays.  The  author,  publicist  as  well  as  dramatic  critic, 
aims  to  show  the  expression  of  the  larger  realities  of  con- 
temporary life  in  the  drama,  the  widening  of  social  influence 
of  the  stage,  the  new  technic,  form,  and  content  of  the  play, 
the  substitution  of  the  theme  for  the  hero,  the  conflict  of  wills 
for  that  of  arms,  etc.  In  short,  to  give  a  brief  but  authorita- 
tive general  survey  with  a  more  detailed  appraisal  of  some  of 
the  chief  creative  contributions. 

The  chapter  headings  indicate  the  content  and  scope  of  the 
work:  Drama  in  the  New  Age;  The  New  Criticism  and  New 
Ethics;  Science  and  the  New  Drama;  The  New  Forms — 
Realism  and  the  Pulpit  Stage;  The  New  Forms — Naturalism 
and  the  Free  Theatre ;  The  Battle  with  Illusions ;  The  Ancient 
Bondage  and  the  New  Freedom ;  The  New  Technic ;  The 
Play  and  the  Reader;  The  New  Content;  The  Newer 
Tendencies. 

The  author,  though  an  American,  has  also  studied  the 
drama  in  the  theatres  of  Great  Britain  and  the  Continent,  and 
has  before  this  demonstrated  that  he  is  a  dramatic  scholar 
and  a  keen,  clear-eyed,  entertaining  critic.  His  articles  have 
appeared  in  La  Societe  Nouvelle,  Mercure  de  France,  Deutsche 
Revue,  Illustreret  Tidende,  Finsk  Tidskrift,  T.  P.'s  Maga- 
zine, etc.,  etc. 

Maurice  Maeterlinck  said  of  his  "Interpreters  of  Life" 
(now  incorporated  in  his  "European  Dramatists")  :  "You 
have  written  one  of  the  most  sagacious,  most  acute,  and  most 
penetrating  essays  in  the  whole  modern  literary  movement." 

"It  is  a  really  great  work,"  said  Professor  William  Lyons 
Phelps  of  "George  Bernard  Shaw:  His  Life  and  Works." 

Of  his  "European  Dramatists,"  The  Dial  said:  "The  criti- 
cisms of  their  work  are  keen  and  lucid,  and  have  the  advan- 
tage of  coming  from  one  who  has  studied  the  plays 
exhaustively." 

HENRY     HOLT     AND     COM  PAN  Y 

PUBLISHERS  vii'14  NEW  YORK 


BOOKS    ON    AND    OF    SCHOOL    PLAYS 

By  Constance  D'Arcy  Mackay 

HOW  TO  PRODUCE  CHILDREN'S  PLAYS 

The  author  is  a  recognized  authority  on  the  production 
of  plays  and  pageants  in  the  public  schools,  and  combines  en- 
thusiastic sympathy  with  sound,  practical  instructions.  She 
tells  both  how  to  inspire  and  care  for  the  young  actor,  how 
to  make  costumes,  properties,  scenery,  where  to  find  de- 
signs for  them,  what  music  to  use,  etc.,  etc.  She  prefaces  it 
all  with  an  interesting  historical  sketch  of  the  plays-for-chil- 
dren  movement,  includes  elaborate  detailed  analyses  of  per- 
formances of  Browning's  Pied  Piper  and  Rosetti's  Pageant 
of  the  Months,  and  concludes  with  numerous  valuable  an- 
alytical lists  of  plays  for  various  grades  and  occasions. 
16mo,  probable  price  $1.20  net  (Feb.,  1914). 

PATRIOTIC  PLAYS  AND  PAGEANTS 

PAGEANT  OF  PATRIOTISM  (Outdoor  and  Indoor  Versions)  : — 
*Princess  Pocahontas,  Pilgrim  Interlude,  Ferry  Farm  Epi- 
sode, *George  Washington's  Fortune,  *Daniel  Boone :  Patriot, 
Benjamin  Franklin  Episode,  Lincoln  Episode,  Final  Tableau. 

HAWTHORNE  PAGEANT  (for  Outdoor  or  Indoor  Produc- 
tion) : — Chorus  of  Spirits  of  the  Old  Manse,  Prologue  by  the 
Muse  of  Hawthorne,  In  Witchcraft  Days,  Dance  Interlude, 
Merrymount,  etc. 

The  portions  marked  with  a  star  (*)  are  one-act  plays 
suitable  for  separate  performance.  There  are  full  directions 
for  simple  costumes,  scenes,  and  staging.  12mo.  $1.35  net. 

THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  HEART 

Short  plays  in  verse  for  children  of  fourteen  or  younger : — 
"The  House  of  the  Heart  (Morality  Play)— "The  Enchanted 
Garden"  (Flower  Play) — "A  Little  Pilgrim's  Progress"  (Mor- 
ality Play) — "A  Pageant  of  Hours"  (To  be  given  Out  of 
Doors) — "On  Christmas  Eve."  "The  Princess  and  the  Pix- 
ies." "The  Christmas  Guest"  (Miracle  Play.),  etc.  $1.10  net. 

"An  addition  to  child  drama  ..which  has  been  sorely  needed." — Boston 
Transcript. 

THE  SILVER  THREAD 

AND  OTHER  FOLK  PLAYS.  "The  Silver  Thread"  (Cornish)  ; 
"The  Forest  Spring"  (Italian)  ;  "The  Foam  Maiden"  (Celtic)  ; 
"Troll  Magic"  (Norwegian)  ;  "The  Three  Wishes"  (French)  ; 
"A  Brewing  of  Brains"  (English)  ;  "Siegfried"  (German)  ; 
"The  Snow  Witch"  (Russian).  $1.10  net. 

HENRY    HOLT    AND    COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


BY  CLAYTON  HAMILTON 
STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

CONTENTS:  The  New  Art  of  Making  Plays,  The  Pictorial 
Stage,  The  Drama  of  Illusion,  The  Modern  Art  of  Stage 
Direction,  A  Plea  for  a  New  Type  of  Play,  The  Undramatic 
Drama,  The  Value  of  Stage  Conventions,  The  Supernatural 
Drama,  The  Irish  National  Theatre,  The  Personality  of  the 
Playwright,  Where  to  Begin  a  Play,  Continuity  of  Structure, 
Rhythm  and  Tempo,  The  Plays  of  Yesteryear,  A  New  De- 
fense of  Melodrama,  The  Art  of  the  Moving-Picture  Play, 
The  One-Act  Play  in  America,  Organizing  an  Audience,  The 
Function  of  Dramatic  Criticism,  etc.,  etc.  $1.50  net 

Nation:  "Information,  alertness,  coolness,  sanity  and  the  command 
of  a  forceful  and  pointed  English.  ...  A  good  book,  in  spite  of 
all  deductions." 

Prof.  Archibald  Henderson,  in  The  Drama:  "Uniformly  excellent  in 
quality.  .  .  .  Continuously  interesting  in  presentation  .  .  . 
uniform  for  high  excellence  and  elevated  standards.  .  .  ." 

Athenaeum  (London) :  "His  discussions,  though  incomplete,  are 
sufficiently  provocative  of  thought  to  be  well  worth  reading." 

THE  THEORY  OF  THE  THEATRE 

THE  THEORY  OF  THE  THEATRE. — What  is  a  Play? — The 
Psychology  of  Theatre  Audiences. — The  Actor  and  the  Dra- 
matist.— Stage  Conventions  in  Modern  Times. — The  Four 
Leading  Types  of  Drama :  Tragedy  and  Melodrama ;  Comedy 
and  Farce. — The  Modern  Social  Drama,  etc.,  etc. 

OTHER  PRINCIPLES  OF  DRAMATIC  CRITICISM. — The  Public 
and  the  Dramatist. — Dramatic  Art  and  the  Theatre  Business. 
— Dramatic  Literature  and  Theatric  Journalism. — The  Inten- 
tion of  Performance. — The  Quality  of  New  Endeavor. — 
Pleasant  and  Unpleasant  Plays. — Themes  in  the  Theatre. — 
The  Function  of  Imagination,  etc.,  etc.  4th  printing.  $1.50  net. 

Bookman:  "Presents  coherently  a  more  substantial  body  of  idea  on 
the  subject  than  perhaps  elsewhere  accessible." 

Boston  Transcript:  "At  every  moment  of  his  discussion  he  has  a 
firm  grasp  upon  every  phase  of  the  subject." 


THE  GERMAN  DRAMA  OF  THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

By  GEORG  WITKOWSKI.    Translated  by  PROF.  L.  E.  HORNING. 

Kleist,  Grillparzer,  Hebbel,  Ludwig,  Wildenbruch,  Sudermann,  Haupt- 
mann  and  minor  dramatists  receive  attention.  12mo.  $1.00. 

New  York  Times  Review:  "The  translation  of  this  brief,  clear  and 
logical  account  was  an  extremely  happy  idea.  Nothing  at  the  same  time 
so  comprehensive  and  terse  has  appeared  on  the  subject." 

HENRY      HOLT     AND      COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


THE  THEATRE 

Clayton  Hamilton's  THEORY  OF  THE  THEATRE.     $1.50  net. 

Edward  Everett  Hale,  Jr.'s  DRAMATISTS  OF  TO-DAY.  Ros- 
tand, Hauptmann,  Sudermann,  Pinero,  Shaw,  Phillips, 
Maeterlinck.  New  Edition  with  Portraits.  $1.50  net. 

George  Witkowski's  GERMAN  DRAMA  OF  THE  NINETEENTH 
CENTURY.  $1.00  net. 

Calvin  Thomas's  LIFE  AND  WORKS  OF  SCHILLER.    $1.50  net. 

W.  Eraser  Rae's  LIFE  OF  RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN. 
With  portraits.  2  vols.  $7.00. 

Jerome  K.  Jerome's  ON  THE  STAGE — AND  OFF.  Humorous 
articles  on  The  Hero,  The  Stage  Child,  The  Villain  and  other 
stage  types.  Illustrated.  $1.00. 

Eva  Lathbury's  THE  SINKING  SHIP.  A  novel  of  London 
Theatrical  Life.  To-day.  $1.50. 

SHAKESPEARE 

Bernhard  ten  Brink's  FIVE  LECTURES  ON  SHAKESPEARE. 
The  Poet  and  the  Man,  The  Chronology  of  Shakepeare's 
Works,  Shakespeare  as  Dramatist,  Shakespeare  as  Comic  Poet, 
Shakespeare  as  Tragic  Writer.  Index  to  works  mentioned. 
Translated  by  Julia  Franklin.  $1.25  net. 

Stopford  Brooke's  ON  TEN  PLAYS  OF  SHAKESPEARE.  Mid- 
summer Night's  Dream,  Romeo  and  Juliet,  Richard  I,  Richard 
II,  Merchant  of  Venice,  As  You  Like  It,  Macbeth,  Coriolanus, 
Winter's  Tale,  The  Tempest.  $2.25  net. 

Stopford  Brooke's  ON  TEN  FURTHER  PLAYS  OF  SHAKES- 
PEARE. Much  Ado  About  Nothing,  Twelfth  Night,  Julius 
Caesar,  Hamlet,  Measure  for  Measure,  Othello,  King  John, 
King  Lear,  Henry  IV  (i,  2);  Henry  V.  Probable  price,  $2.25 
net.  (May.) 

John  Masefield's  SHAKESPEARE.  (Home  University  Li- 
brary.) 50c.  net. 

Charlton  M.  Lewis's  THE  GENESIS  OF  HAMLET.    $1.25  net. 

Felix  E.  Schelling's  ENGLISH  LITERATURE  DURING  THE 
LIFETIME  OF  SHAKESPEARE.  $2.50  net. 

Henry  Thew.  Stephenson's  SHAKESPEARE'S  LONDON.  Illus- 
trated. $2.00  net. 

Stephenson's  THE  ELIZABETHAN  PEOPLE..  Illustrated. 
$2.00  net. 

Postage  on  net  books  8%  additional 

HENRY     HOLT     AND    COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW   YORK 


DATE  DUE 


GAYLORD 


DC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  541  733     2 


